


Gravity Brings You Home

by ParadiseParrot



Series: Fledgling [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark Energon, Discussion of Abortion, Ensemble Cast, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Multi, Sequel, Sparkpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-09 22:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseParrot/pseuds/ParadiseParrot
Summary: Going to war means sacrifices, big and small. Cybertronians are used to big ones, but it doesn't make them hurt any less when they're made. Skywarp and Thundercracker's sacrifice intends to come back and find them. She just has no idea what it is she's gotten into.A runaway, some bare-minimum Decepticons, a medical outpost...and two Seekers, who find each other and get caught up in things bigger than either of them.





	1. Prologue: Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's here! I'm really excited to be doing a sequel to Fledgling (though my intention is that enough familiar canon is here that people picking this up can start here if they want).
> 
> A lot of exciting characters and ideas have been kicking around for ages, and I'm really stoked to be putting them together in this story! As always, I love reviews and comments to death, don't hesitate to leave them! More characters and archive warnings will be added as we go forward, though the overall rating should stay the same.

Mistral was young. Probably the youngest person in the eastern Fleet, not even in her final upgrade, and sparked so close to the war breaking out. Young or not, she was well-acquainted with goodbyes.

First, Vos. She didn't really remember the towers tumbling behind them, or her parent’s escape (her carrier said he had held on tight to her, but she had wriggled and not made it easy). She remembered the roar of the bombs, and her sire wiping his optics as he looked back.

That was the only time she saw her parents cry.

Next was Starscream, though that had left less of an impression. He had spoken out of turn one time too many, and so Lord Megatron had broken off his last piece of Vos, and sent his trine away. Her parents had refused to speak to him in their anger, but he’d pressed a package of sweets into Mistral's hands.

“Be a good child,” he'd said. She remembered the words, because his voice was hard to forget. “Don’t forget your Vosian, now. Our language is getting scarce.”

Her carrier claimed they were better off without him, really. In the Fleet they had decent commands, and some distance from the main conflict. But Skywarp was a bad liar, and Mistral knew better. They were two instead of three, that was wrong, and Mistral had almost said so out loud once. That they shouldn’t have been sent away. Her sire had put a stop to that, by way of a hand over her mouth.

“It’s better not to question Lord Megatron,” he told her firmly. “In fact, don’t question him at all. This was the Air Commander’s punishment.”

There were many more small goodbyes. Mechs with their sparks defrosted and put in fine Seeker frames, who made much of Mistral when she trailed after Thundercracker to flight class. After hours they would play with her, chasing each other through the ship's corridors. They were younger than she was, if you didn’t count how long their sparks had been frozen, and loved to play games on their off shift.

Her sire would make them good fliers, and they would be shot down, one by one. Mistral learned quickly to stop crying over them. It didn’t bring a single friend back, no more than it would bring back Vos.

It wasn’t her sire's fault, but she and her carrier knew he felt the loss.

“That's what happens when they’re sent out before they’re ready,” Skywarp said grimly. “You’re doing your best.”

“It’s not enough,” Thundercracker said, voice pained. Mistral heard them from outside the door, eavesdropping. She had gotten good at listening in, through necessity. It was the only way to learn anything sometimes, because adults liked to shut their lips when a sparklet was nearby.

Her carrier told her that was a bad habit, that she shouldn’t be nosey. But she saw _him_ do it, too—he was just better at looking like he wasn’t.

Eventually, Shockwave sent them new mechs, cloned from a few defrosted sparks, who came with flight protocols already.

“Born to be cannon fodder,” Thundercracker said once, with disgust. Then he saw Mistral and shut his mouth, and she never heard another word about the new recruits.

The goodbyes laid off for awhile. The attacks started instead, and Mistral soon stopped jumping in terror at every explosion. Her parents often flew out to fight—they were Megatron's finest Seekers, besides the Air Commander—but they would come back, tired and battered. She stopped recharging in her own berth when they were back, wanting the safety of their frames around her.

Her carrier’s grin was the same, tired or not, and he’d stroke her helm as she drifted off. No one could hear them, so they spoke in Vosian.

“Maybe the war will be over soon,” Skywarp said. “We can go home, and rebuild it.”

“And I’ll go to school,” Mistral said sleepily. “Right, Daddy?”

“Of course,” Thundercracker said. “And we'll all be together again.”

This was their little dream—the only one her sad, serious sire put much thought into. She guessed he missed Starscream, and the people they'd known in Vos, but try as she might she couldn't tease out who they were. Maybe they were dead.

Skywarp had plenty more fantasies, full of wind-swept mountains where they were forged, and roaring dragons who prowled the peaks. Towers so high that you could touch the stars from the top. Bloodthirsty, Functionist Autobots he promised to keep her safe from. He claimed that Mistral made him creative—even if her sire thought some of the stories were too graphic.

The attacks dropped off, but then the eastern Fleet brushed against Autobot space. And again, Mistral said goodbye, carried by her sire to a new ship. This battle, close enough to see and smell, she couldn’t imagine she’d forget.

They lived, all of them, though her carrier needed a new foot and Mistral herself had her back stripped of paint. Her spark still quivered when she thought about it. Her nightmares were enough to make her scream, and make Thundercracker scold Skywarp for filling up her imagination and making the whole thing worse. Autobots weren’t monsters, he said, but Mistral didn’t believe him. She had just seen what they did, and it was monstrous.

Her parents started talking in low voices, after they had put her to bed. They did it in the corner they knew Mistral couldn’t hear them from, and that how she knew it must be about her.

One night they called her into their room. Her carrier sat her on his lap, though she was too old for that now. Thundercracker stroked her helm as he spoke.

“Do you know about Caminus?” he asked. When she nodded, he smiled, though he was no less relaxed. “Good. You’re paying attention.”

“It’s a colony,” she said. “And they’re neutral.”

They worshipped the Primes, but they sold both sides fine swords and melee weapons. They were tolerated, because they were built almost like Cybertronians. Her books said some thought they’d once been one and the same.

“How would you like to go there?” Skywarp asked. He said it like it was something exciting, or tried to, but Mistral heard the waver. Dread curled in her spark.

“I don’t want to,” she said, sure of her answer. “I’m going to stay with you.”

Her sire's hand shook. “It’s safe there,” he began. “No war, and enough energy—“

“We have enough!” Mistral protested, and she knew it was true. The raids had been good, and she had countless Decepticon-controlled worlds marked on her map. “I want to stay with you! I don’t even care if I died, or something, as long as I was here!”

“Well _we_ do,” Skywarp said sharply. Mistral paused, because her carrier never spoke that way to her. “Your sire knows an old student on Caminus. We'll find you somewhere safe, right? Just till the end of the war.”

“ _NO!_ ”

Mistral never screamed, or threw tantrums. It was important not to annoy the other soldiers, and more important, not to make her parent’s lives any harder. She knew this would upset them.

She cried, and screamed, and fought until she was too tired to do any of it, and the decision was made final. She would get ready for her last goodbye.

It wasn’t safe for both of them to take her, but they did anyway. Neither of them to be the one to say goodbye first, to wait for the other to come back alone. And they were so quiet as they helped her pack, that she couldn’t bring herself to have more tantrums.

Mistral’s possessions were meagre. She had standard-issue supplies, the same as any officer. A few books, and her datapad for lessons. (She was behind, because Thundercracker had less time to teach her.) A few games, and a little red model of a jet. She was too old for it, but she’d packed it carefully anyway. She had had of ever since Vos.

Her parents chartered a shuttle when the Fleet anchored near neutral space. The pilot wasn’t a Vehicon, and wasn’t a flier, but Mistral didn’t know his name and wouldn’t ask. Tucked between her parents, she could just see out the small window to the _Kaon's Light_ and watch it get farther away.

She dozed for half the trip, leaning against her carrier's side and trying to remember the rumble of his engines. Thundercracker’s hand rested on her head, occasionally coming down to stroke her cheek. Mistral was warm, safe, and loved, and had never wanted to be anywhere else more in her life.

Despite her best efforts to pretend otherwise, the shuttle landed. Mistral onlined her optics and found herself squinting. The light on the planet was vivid, not like the ship's lamps she was used to. After a moment she realized that Caminus must have a sun. Apparently Cybertron had too, before Megatron had tapped it for energy. Deep space was dark and cold, and stars gave off little light.

She didn’t care, and held her carrier’s hand tightly as they stepped off the shuttle. She would rather stay with her family in the darkest, coldest system, than find herself alone and apart under a big inviting star.

“They say the sun here stimulates energon production,” Thundercracker said. “A consistent, renewable energy source.”

“Raids are a consistent source of energy,” Mistral mumbled. The sharp look her sire gave her was pained, his optics too bright. Skywarp squeezed her hand. Mistral turned her gaze straight ahead, to the bots waiting for them on the platform.

One of the two stepped forward, and Mistral was stricken. Her face wasn't the usual gray, or even a solid colour. White with blue, blue optics, red lips and red markings, Mistral had never seen anything like it. She had no insignia, either, which added to her interest. Everyone Mistral had known had been a Decepticon, clearly marked.

But Camiens were neutral, not Decepticons. The bot smiled, and reached out to grasp Thundercracker's hand.

“Flight instructor Thundercracker,” she said. For a neutral (one with no weapons), she seemed fearless of them. “It's been quite awhile.”

“You're looking well, Windblade,” Thundercracker said. He eyed the roller, a stockier blue femme behind her. “And this is...?”

“Chromia,” Windblade said. “My amica endura, and bodyguard.”

Skywarp tilted his head. “I thought Caminus was safe.”

“It is,” Chromia said, stepping forward. Her optics were narrowed, and she _did_ have a sword. Mistral was supposed to go with her? “Windblade is a diplomat as well as a Cityspeaker. It's just a precaution.”

“Peacetime sure is something,” Skywarp said. It came out as half a snort.

“What's a Cityspeaker?” Mistral asked, before her carrier could say anything else. They all paused, and the Camiens turned their optics onto her. Windblade's smile warmed, and Chromia's plating relaxed. Mistral stepped closer to her carrier.

“Oh, Thundercracker, she's _beautiful,_ ” Windblade said. Mistral felt her faceplate heat up, despite her best efforts. “What a wonderful paint job.”

“She does turn heads,” her sire said. There was a clear note of pride in his voice. Mistral was unique, though she rarely gave much thought to it—most of her plating was one colour, a white with a many coloured sheen. It was frivolous, but so were Vosians, and Mistral knew how to take good care of herself.

“Not very easy to hide,” Chromia said, though she was staring too.

“There won't be any need to hide you,” Windblade said, addressing Mistral for the first time. “More than a few sparklets take refuge here, from Cybertron and other colonies. The main difference is your faction.”

“She doesn't have a faction yet,” Thundercracker said. “Not really. She needs her final upgrade.”

“Let's hope the war is over before it comes to that,” Windblade said. She glanced at Chromia, whose optics were still on Mistral. “Do you have a lot to take with you, Mistral?”

The words hurt, though Windblade couldn't know it. “Not much,” she said. “Just my one bag. We move a lot.”

“Much easier to have a few possessions,” Thundercracker said. He reached over, to stroke Mistral's helm. “They're not what matters.”

“No, they're not,” Windblade said. She turned back to Thundercracker, straightening her wings. She didn't move them the way a Vosian did, and Mistral wondered if she'd understand wing signs at all. “I know you were concerned about where she'd go, but I'll keep her with me. She can attend an education facility during the day.”

“These sparklets dropped off get boarded at the school,” said Chromia. “Windblade insisted she be with someone trusted.”

Thundercracker nodded, and he seemed relieved, but Mistral's spark twisted. Maybe Windblade had been her sire's student once, a long time ago, but _Mistral_ didn't trust her. She didn't even know her!

The pilot appeared from the shuttle's doorway, and held up his hand. Five minutes. Skywarp grimaced, squeezing Mistral's hand, then deftly pulled her bag from her other hand.

“If you could just take that,” he said, shoving it towards Windblade. “And give us a few minutes. Thanks.”

Mistral seriously considered making a break for the shuttle. Her foot got partway off the ground, before Skywarp kneeled and wrapped her up in his arms, pressed close against his cockpit.

“I'm so sorry,” he mumbled against her audial. “It's killing me to put you through this, kiddo.”

“Then _stay,_ ” Mistral whispered. Who else could they have lost? Starscream was alive, just far away. A sob caught in her vocalizer. “Leave the army and stay with me.”

“We can't,” Skywarp said. He pulled back, looking at her like her face was precious energon. She hated seeing him as anything but his friendly, mischievous self, and so far this time was the worst. “The officer cadre won't miss you, but they'll ask after us. It's dangerous to be disloyal. And someone has to win. Take Cybertron back.”

Mistral couldn't imagine anything more dangerous than being left alone here, among strangers. In that moment, she didn't care one bit about the cause. Next to them, Thundercracker kneeled too, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Windblade and Chromia had stepped back, holding her little bag and speaking quietly among themselves.

She turned to her sire, and tipped her chin up proudly. “I'm not afraid of anything.”

Thundercracker smiled faintly. “I know. And that's why you'll manage. Now, Mistral, listen to me—”

“Don't leave,” Mistral said. Skywarp vented sharply, and Thundercracker shuttered his optics for a moment.

“Listen very carefully,” Thundercracker said. “I worked with Windblade for some time, after she graduated. She tries to do the right thing. Your carrier and I are trying to do that now, for you. And we're going to be able to exchange letters.”

Immediately, Mistral paused. “Letters?”

How could there be letters, when the fleet couldn't know about neutral dealings? Thundercracker's thumb ran across her cheek, under her optic. “Through a rendezvous, and by paying well. They won't be frequent. Monthly, at the most.”

“But I'll get them,” Mistral said. Thundercracker smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “And when all this is over, we'll come and get _you.”_

Mistral chewed her bottom lip, trying not to let her hands shake. She _was_ brave, and she’d have to show it better than ever if she was going to survive this. No matter what, they would leave without her. She was just a sparklet, not yet in control of her own future.

“Every month,” she said finally. “Date the letters, so even if the mail's slow I know you sent it.”

“'Course,” her carrier said. His voice was thicker than normal. “But only if you do the same thing.”

She nodded, clenching her hands into fists. For the Decepticon Cause, everyone made sacrifices, even when they didn’t really want to. And, she’d started to realize, her parents in particular rarely seemed to want to.

That was something you really couldn't say out loud.

“Every month,” she said. “Or more. I swear on my spark.”

The pilot coughed behind them, and held up one finger. It was time to go. Mistral’s choked sob was interrupted by Skywarp pulling her in and squeezing, hard enough that she squeaked, felt the pounding of his spark. His forehelm was pressed up against hers, and he said nothing.

“Tell jokes in your letters,” Mistral barely whispered. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

For a split second, her squeezed her harder. He couldn’t seem to speak. When he pulled back and stood up, she couldn’t read the expression on his face. Her sire bent down next and pressed his face into her neck, like it would hold her memory in place.

“I love you, little cloud,” he murmured in her audial. “More than anything. I love you.”

Decepticons weren't supposed to be emotional. Recently they'd tried to hug and touch her less, to get her ready for that, but it had gone right out the airlock today. She never wanted it to end.

She watched them both turn around, away from her, and wished she had a camera among her possessions. What if they didn’t look like their pictures when they came for her?

Mistral wouldn’t think of the other option, which was them never being able to come back. She watched the shuttle's thrusters roar back on, with them in it, and it take off into the planet's grey sky. She wanted to run after them, even turn on her little antigravs and fly up, but she was rooted to the spot like a column.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that. But she had started to drift off, because she jumped at the hand on her shoulder. Without thinking, Mistral took a step back from Windblade. The Camien mech was smiling, but there was sadness in her optics.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Mistral said quickly. “Decepticons don’t get startled.”

“Alright,” Windblade's friend said, like she didn’t believe it. She hefted Mistral’s bag onto her shoulder. “Well, let’s get going. People were wonder why we’re standing around this seedy shuttle bay.”

If this wasn’t the worst day of her life, Mistral would have scowled at Chromia. Instead she settled for cool disinterest—or her best impression of it.

Windblade smiled at her again, and maybe on a better day she would have tried to like her. Instead she just shrugged, and followed the two Camiens off of the launchpad, into this unfamiliar place. Thinking about the next solar cycle, and the letter she’d been promised.

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistral doesn't belong on Caminus. Where she does fit, she doesn't yet know, but she's going to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update much sooner than I planned! I'm raring to get into the meat of this fic, I think, and you've got to write when you feel the itch.
> 
> As always, comments are the greatest gift in the world. Future updates should be longer, but it felt best to end off here. Thanks for reading!!

“You’re looking a little pale,” Windblade said, narrowing her optics.

Sun streamed in through the sliding doors, warm on Mistral’s plating. She held out her arms, one brow raised.

“My plating is white,” she said, twitching her wings. It wasn’t quite, and Mistral knew better than anyone how her colours caught the sun. “I'm always pale.”

Windblade set her hands on her hips, all suspicion. “I don’t mean that, and you know it. Your biolights aren’t the right red. Are you refueling enough?”

Mistral resisted the urge to roll her optics. They had talked about that before, and she had agreed to try and stop doing it. “Well, no one is refueling enough, so probably not.”

Windblade sighed. Predictably, she started parroting her employer. “In this period of relative scarcity, we’re trying to ensure all mechs get adequate nutrition—”

“Adequate’s still not really enough,” Mistral said. “And it won’t be unless the miners crack open some new magic wells the instruments can’t find. We're luckier than a lot of mechs, not starving, so, yeah, I might be a little pale.”

Windblade held up her hands. At least now she smiled. “Alright, alright,” she said. “We’re all on the low side of ‘adequate’ these days. But I think we might be making progress with the Titan. Lightbright told me she heard a new Primal Vernacular word for fuel.”

Windblade still touched her marks when she talked about cityspeaking. When Mistral had come to Caminus, she had already been a good one, called upon often by the Camien Senate. Just before Mistral’s upgrade, she’d become the Mistress’s Right Hand, and they’d gotten to move to this beautiful flat. That was likely the only reasons their fueling was _adequate_ at all.

“Well,” Windblade said after a moment, more cheerfully, “The morning allotment is still a full cube. And I’ll see you put all of it away.”

Mistral smiled, though she knew Windblade could tell her spark wasn’t in it. Windblade set the full cubes down and dropped into the seat across from her, returning the smile anyway. Poor Windblade. She had had no clue what it meat to take in a miserable, lonely sparklet all those years ago, and she had sure paid for it.

“Did you check the mail?”

Mistral asked this every morning. It was probably the most consistent thing about the time she’d spent on Caminus, and for the first several years it had had a result: a letter most months, sometimes two if the systems hadn’t been working. They weren’t always long, but Mistral had them all saved to her personal drive. Her carrier and sire both always added something, however brief, hinted at where they might be, and said they missed her. She had sent short letters too, the long distance mail unable to handle more than the simplest messages. Slowly, knowing they were out there, she’d done okay.

And when the letters had stopped, she'd at least made an effort. Most of the time. There was nothing worse than misdemeanors on her record, and since the first time someone had pressed a charge she had tried to behave. For Windblade's sake, if not her own.

Windblade’s smile went sad. She sipped her energon before answering. “Only from the Academies, if you mean for you,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that—”

“—About how you’re sure it’ll be any day now?” Mistral cut in. “Of course. I already know.”

Now Windblade wasn’t smiling. She could still face Mistral steadily, even if her optics burned red into her blue, and her charge was a good head taller now.

“It’s been years, Mistral,” Windblade said gently. “A lot of years, even for someone young like you. I told you there was nothing in the bulletins, but there isn’t always, not even when an officer is the casualty.”

“They’re _not dead,_ ” Mistral snapped. “You show me a body, and I’ll believe they’re dead. We’ll check again tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Windblade said, more quietly. “We will. At least look at the Academy bulletins.”

Mistral took the datapad slid her way, and looked. She read deliberately slowly, and took long pauses to sip her energon. Windblade was patient, probably because she had a late start that day.

“It's the same old,” Mistral said finally. “The Academy of Arts probably saw my picture and wants me to look pretty on a stage, and Caminus Tech is willing to overlook my record.”

“The notice is longer this time,” Windblade said. “The rest?”

Mistral sighed. “They want me to move to the interview stage. Because you had me sit the exam again, and I scored higher.”

Windblade’s face lit up and her wings perked high, as Mistral knew they would. “Mistral! That’s fantastic! You were already in the 98th percentile on your first sit, too! Did they give a date?”

“I have to set it up,” she said. “So, yeah. It's not really an accomplishment to ace an exam you already did.”

Windblade’s wings dipped a bit lower. “But you’ll take care of it today?”

Mistral looked at her steadily. She was finding that with Windblade’s long hours and her stresses, it was easy to win their little staring contests. When she’d been younger, her guardian had seemed a powerful force. Now she glanced away, at the table. Mistral took the moment to shrug.

“That’s not what I want to do.”

Windblade sighed. “You have to go back to school, Mistral. You can’t run messages forever.”

Mistral’s fist curled before she realized she was doing it. “That can wait until the end of the war,” she said. “I'd rather do tangible things. Like fight.”

Windblade looked at her steadily again, but her optics were frightened. “Caminus isn’t at war, Mistral. _You’re_ not at war.”

She might have been a resident of this colony, but she didn’t have citizenship, and never would.

Silence.

Mistral stood up. She held her cube carefully, so as not to spill a precious drop. “I’ll finish this in my room, thanks. Have a good day at work.”

(As if rooting around in a Titan’s brain could be work, but Mistral had gotten used to Camien strangeness. It seemed to mean a lot to them.)

Her door snapped shut behind her, and she heard Windblade sigh. Mistral's own sigh shuddered out in response, as she sank down onto the floor next to her berth. Her big window, and view of the sky, weren't enough of a comfort today.

Underneath her berth was an energon skein, the kind for long trips she had brought in her old officer's kit. Mistral unscrewed the cap and poured a fraction into the pouch. It sloshed—almost full.

It would keep well in that container when she took it with her. The rest she drank, ignoring the gnaw of hunger in her tanks, then stowed her skein back in its corner. Windblade was an advocate of a young mech's privacy, and Mistral was fairly confident her room would never be searched. (If she had been with her parents, Thundercracker would have found it in a week.)

It wasn’t like Windblade was home enough to notice.

She had settled herself on the floor next to her berth, knees pulled up to her chest. She pulled them up tighter when she heard the front door unlock, and Chromia's “I'm coming in!” as it squeaked open. Mistral's groan was muffled by her knees, because of course Chromia would show up on the heels of another disagreement. Had she been listening at the door?

Well, she wasn't the only one who could eavesdrop. And by now, her guardian's amica should have known she was dealing with the master. Scooting silently across the floor, Mistral pressed her audial to her door, and dialed up the sensitivity.

“Fighting again?”

Windblade's sigh was a huff. “Something like that. I'm not sure I'm what she wants to fight, though.”

There was the soft _thump_ of Chromia dropping into a chair. “Autobots?”

“Probably. But that's a means to an end.”

Mistral had seen them often enough to know how this would go, curled up in the main room while they talked and thought she was busy studying. Windblade would have slumped, wings lowered, and Chromia would have started rubbing the space between them on her back, fiddling with her other hand.

“So the school argument isn't going well,” Chromia remarked wryly.

“She doesn't see the point,” Windblade said. “And, honestly? Sometimes it's hard to blame her. There's an energy crisis, so few good jobs, and now I hear that there was Decepticon activity in Camien space...Chromie, it's not looking good.”

“Don't let Mistral here you say that,” Chromia snorted, at the same time as Mistral perked up. “Is she home? You shouldn't talk about that stuff when she's in audial range. Might give her ideas.”

Too late for that, but know-it-all Chromia certainly didn't have to know _that._ Decepticon activity here? That must have meant fighting, because there was technically Cybertronian activity all the time. Representatives showed up discreetly for weapons and intel...and occasionally to defect, though less often these days. Maybe because they were closer to the war now than they'd ever been.

“She's made it to the second phase at the tech college,” Windblade said. “She scores so high, but it's no good if she does nothing with it.”

“Flight school?” Chromia asked. “She's the right frame to be guarding the planet, and the rationing for them is good.”

“I've thought about that, but she's not religious,” Windblade said. “She'd have enough problems in the Primal Guard without refusing to go to chapel. Remember her in primary education?”

Chromia was probably grinning, equaling Mistral's scowl. “What, telling them the Primes were nothing but a bunch of worthless Functionists? And all those parent-teacher conferences where they tried to convince you that boarding her would 'straighten her out?'”

Windblade was probably forcing a smile now, too. “She got a letter from her parents that said they hoped she was behaving in school, no matter what she had to put up with. It straightened her out.”

“Too bad,” Chromia said, to Mistral's surprise. “If Caminus needs anything, it's mechs not afraid to be critical. No one here knows a thing about Optimus Prime, after all. And _he's_ not fixing the energy crisis.”

The last thing she'd expected from a cityspeaker's bodyguard was smack talk about the Primes. Mistral had to be impressed, and was forced to reconsider her feelings about Chromia. Windblade huffed, of course.

“Please don't talk like that. I still pray—and I have to hope.”

“I don't mind if anyone's praying,” Chromia said. “You act like I don't. It just can't be the only course of action from the Mistress of Flame anymore.”

There was a brief silence, before Windblade sighed again. There was the soft sound of her leaning lightly against Chromia's well-armoured shoulder. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Pf. You'd manage.”

They had really ought to _kiss_ already, and upgrade from that amica status Camiens loved so much. Still, no one had asked Mistral, and that was probably for the best. She made sure her energon skein was hidden away, then stood up and went abruptly out through the door. The two of them were sitting as expected, close enough for their thighs to be touching and Chromia giving Windblade a wing massage. And Windblade's white faceplate flushed, when she saw Mistral looking.

“I'm gonna see if the hospital has any parts left to ferry around,” Mistral said. “Hey, Chromia.”

“Hey, kid.” Chromia watched her putting her empty cube in the sink, then move towards the door. “Fly safe today. It's windy out.”

“Always. Have a good day at work,” she said. There. Now they could gossip about her as much as they wanted, and Mistral could be out in the air. She could plan, too, since apparently things would have to move faster than she'd expected.

It was always easier to think during flight, as her thrusters roared and her wings gleamed in the sun. And because she flew just a little straighter, just a little faster than most Camiens, it was even easier to rise high and fly relaxed. Only Windblade could hold a candle to her on this planet, and that was because Thundercracker had taught her the Vosian way.

Said Camien who moved like a Vosian would be working late, since she was leaving so late that day. Plenty of time for Mistral to do her deliveries, cash her credits chips, and go home. She would make it in time for the last shuttle out, and from there she could fly to the nearest Decepticon ship (the directions to which had been embarrassingly easy to work out from the bulletins). And if they didn't welcome her, surely she could prove her worth. She was no longer just a sparklet, guzzling needed fuel from the Cause.

The best laid plans, she thought as she touched down at the hospital, were the ones lightly sketched out. Things had to be moved around, and to be rigid was to be in trouble when things went wrong.

Or so she told herself.

Velocity was waiting for her at the door. Mistral liked her—she was friendly and a bit scattered, which meant she never looked suspiciously at her red optics or Mistral's tall, sleek frame.

“Got anything today, Lotty?” she asked. If anyone on Caminus liked Mistral, it was Velocity's teaching hospital, and the EMTs. She was easily the best for this job (and thank goodness, because otherwise she'd have no money at all).

Velocity's response was a grin, and holding out a heavy box. “A lot, actually. No offense, but on days like this I'm glad you don't want a high paying gig.”

Okay, that _was_ rude, but Mistral only smiled as she fastened the box. “I make it high paying,” she said. “No one's better at this than me. Exams coming up?”

Velocity tensed. “Yeah,” she said. “Ninth time lucky, right?”

“You got it. This time-sensitive?”

“Not particularly, it's just struts and armour grafts. But there's more if you need the work,” Velocity said. She made a face. “ _Blessed Solus_ across town is gearing up in case of an attack. Did you hear about the Decepticons in our system?”

“A little,” Mistral said, hoping it wasn't obvious how her spark leaped with joy at that. “I'll be back soon, then. Don't study on your shift!”

Where a clunky Camien flier could take three hours, Mistral took an hour and a half. They had already been nervous of wasting energon before the crisis, and none of them were true Seekers—it was rare to meet someone fearless like Chromia, or who flew as neatly as Windblade. All it did was cement Mistral's knowledge that she had never belonged here, and that she had to get out.

Sometimes it was hard to push down resentment against her parents, but she did her best. She couldn't be angry and bitter when she found them again. And she _would_ find them again.

She did several more deliveries, all sent out by Velocity. Apparently they were trying to keep her out of the surgical wards that day, and it must have been wearing on her, but that wouldn't really be Mistral's concern any longer. The sun was still high when she pocketed her credits, though now the gas giant in the sky was visible too. She hadn't seen it that first night on Caminus (but maybe it had been the coolant blurring her optics) but now it was a regular companion. Really, it would be incredible to fly under, if she had time for free flight.

The mechs she ached to fly with weren't here anyway.

The bank tellers were less kind than Velocity. Paid credits had to go through official channels to become shanix now—to see where they were going, Windblade said. Well, they wouldn't be seeing these again, but she wouldn't be planetside to see trouble from it.

She had her residence card ready, and ramped up her good manners, but that didn't stop the worker she talked to from narrowing their optics, at her and her photo, like she was hard to miss anyway.

“Your friends are nearby,” he said, as he processed her funds.

Mistral looked up, confused. It was upsetting enough that she couldn't take all her meagre funds (it would be worse if the authorities caught on _now_ ), but she didn't need to be jerked around. “Sorry?”

The mech jerked his head outside. “Decepticons. Red-optic murdering Seekers. You ought to change your look, Cybertronian. Gives people the wrong idea.”

“How I look doesn't make me who I am,” she said. She was proud of the calm in her voice. “Primus gave me these. Primus gave me this paint, too, and his gifts are blessed. We were all forged for him by Solus, weren't we?”

The Camien teller had to grind his denta and hand over her money, because of course there was no answer to that he could give. Mistral might have balked at religion class, but she wasn't stupid.

It was easy to fly above the rush to the apartment, and touch down on the balcony. After the letters had stopped she had forced herself not to think of life with Windblade as _home._ If she got comfortable, it would only be harder to leave.

“Hey, kid.”

And of course Chromia would be intruding, whether this was her apartment or not. Mistral hardly looked up at her leaning on the counter, heading for her room.

“Hey. Shouldn't you be with Windblade?”

Chromia shook her head. “Stopped in to wait for you.”

Mistral forced a smile. “She sent you? Windblade shouldn't worry so much.”

“She worried enough before she took you in,” Chromia said, her wheels twitching. “For some reason she was afraid you wouldn't come back one of these nights, so I said I'd make sure you got home safe.”

Guilt and dread rolled equally in Mistral's spark. Guilt, because Windblade really did do her best, and dread that Chromia had thrown a wrench into her plan and would keep her home that night. She _could_ outfly Windblade, sure, and Chromia was groundbound, but the authorities would drive her right back. And then she'd never get off this planet. Mistral shrugged.

“Well, I'm safe,” she said. For effect, she held out her arms. “And tired, from all those deliveries.”

Chromia grinned. “Well,” she said dryly, “You might not be in an academy, but you're contributing. That's something. I can't stay, but she told me to make sure you got your ration. It's on the counter.”

The half ration was next to the dispenser, and this one Mistral would have to drink all of. There would be no way she was reaching a battleship without it. “Thanks. Tell Windblade to relax a little when you see her though, will you? I don't waste a drop of my rations.”

That was the truth, so she didn't feel bad about saying it. Chromia smiled, and stretched.

“I'll sure try,” she said. “Have a good night, kiddo. She'll be glad you're in. You know how much she cares.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mistral said, and then regretted it. Chromia's optics had gone bright and serious.

“No, I mean that,” Chromia said. Her voice had gone stern. “At first she might have just been _d_ oing the right thin _g,_ because she thought highly of your sire, but you have to know now that you're hers. She loves you.”

Mistral sighed. “I'm my parents' sparklet, not hers. But yeah. I'm glad I matter to her.”

Chromia raised a brow. “You should be. Now, finish your ration. Night.”

Mistral wished fervently that Chromia hadn't bothered, because now she had go through this feeling guilty about it. She tried to keep her note brief, but it couldn't exactly be distant—it had been with anguish that she'd realized she'd lived longer with Windblade than with her own family. And for more than half that time, there had been no letters.

But she _would_ find them.

She didn't use the subspace compartment on deliveries, but now she put the energon skein away, feeling odd at watching such a big piece of equipment be stuck weightlessly _inside_ her. It was probably the most useful Camien invention, and the best thing to come out of Windblade's new status. In it she could also fit a few possessions: her little toy jet, her photos, and her old Decepticon ID card. Proof she belonged.

She washed the empty cubes in the sink, and set them away. With one of her unprocessed credits chips from the day, she set down a folded piece of writing-metal on the counter's edge. She had almost left a datapad, it was always easier...but they had some to use, and Windblade said she liked the intimacy of a _real_ letter. And Mistral guessed she could leave Windblade with one thing she liked.

Before she could let the guilt make her steps heavy, she was out on the balcony again. She took off, and flew north, away from the gas giant and away from the sun. The shuttle bay would be very much open, and somehow she was earlier than planned.

_Windblade,_

_I guess I should start with being sorry, because I know you've done your best, and I didn't make it easy for you. It's not your fault letters stopped coming. But you had to know I would need to go find out why, and the opportunity came up faster than I expected. I'll be okay. Deep down I'm still a Decepticon, and I'm a Seeker. I belong there. I was taught by the best how to make sacrifices for what matters._

_If a letter comes, tell them I'm on my way, and we'll be together soon. There's still 300 shanix in my account if you need it, and one day I'll pay you back for the rest of the costs to raise me. When we win the war I'll make sure you're safe, and that Caminus can get energon from new sources. There's always a planet or two as surplus, if it's the same as when I was a sparklet._

_One more thing: Chromia cares a lot about you. Tell her what you really want, because I don't think it's just amica. And you're going to be upset, which means you're going to need her._

_Thanks for everything._

  * _Mistral of Iacon_




Her last flight on Caminus was uneventful, and so was her shuttle trip. It wasn't even as long as she'd expected, considering she was left outside the atmosphere. The pilot asked her what she was up to, of course, flying so far off-planet.

“Nothing out here,” he told her, as she stepped out. “Except warmongerers and aliens. Be careful.”

“It's just brief business,” she said. “It can't be that unsafe, if they run your shuttle route.”

“You have a way off?” he asked. Honestly, why people without flight piloted shuttles, Mistral would never know.

“Of course,” she lied. “I'm just early.”

The shuttle driver only nodded, eager to get back to the planet again. It wasn't _his_ business, and if he stuck his nose in it, she'd already be gone.

So far, so good. Caminus at large might have wanted to reconsider how easy it was to leave this planet. No one even saw her take off.

She wasn't as spaceworthy as she'd hoped (what was this drag? How was there _drag_ in space?), but she moved passably enough, and in the direction of the asteroid belt. There was activity beyond it, even she could see it, and she'd probably reach it by the next day. The news bulletin from earlier had been correct.

By then Windblade was probably on her way home. Soon she'd find her note, and panic. Or be furious, but that was probably more Chromia's method than her guardian's. She'd be reported missing, but by then she'd be well out of the way of authorities. And if not with Decepticons, closer to them.

Her parents would have been proud of how well she navigated those asteroids, too. Why had she ever worried about escaping Caminus? Of course she had had it in hand. She came from Seeker stock too good to fail.

When she saw a Decepticon symbol on the biggest ship, she felt a thrill, pushing her tired thrusters harder. Even better! It would be so much easier to search, back where she belonged and with resources at her disposal. Even the biggest ship was not _that_ big, anyway, and that might make it easier to be personal. Meet the commander, explain she was joining up, head out to a command post and be branded. She could hardly wait.

She was so excited that she didn't notice the guns out, or that there was another ship moving in. A bigger ship, with a very different brand, and bigger weapons.

In fact, Mistral didn't notice this at all until a laser sliced through her aileron, and she was screaming. She might have been young when she left, but those were the sounds of a battle, and you never forgot those. Suddenly she was aware of the firing, and the growl of guns despite space's deep vaccuum. Her wing screamed with pain and she tried desperately to turn off the warnings, because she had to _get to_ that ship, when she had gotten so easily close!

Mistral tried to bank out of the way of another laser (this time, infuriatingly, a Decepticon one—didn't they know a Seeker when they saw her?) and more warnings screamed through her. Now she could see smaller ships here and there, some part of the battle, some heading for nearby asteroids and moons.

Finally, she considered that maybe Windblade had been right, and she was in over her head. She apologized in her head to her serious, intelligent sire, and her affectionate carrier, full of mischief. For the first time she considered that maybe she wouldn't find them this way, as her thrusters faded out.

Another shot, and one thruster was out. The time to turn around and head for Caminus again had passed, since she could barely see for blaring red warnings and pain twisting in her systems and spark. So she kept going, out of the way of the battle and into blessed clear space.

She'd just have to keep going. When they'd calmed down, she could circle back, and decide what the next plan was.

Or she would have, if the warnings hadn't overwhelmed her and the world hadn't gone dark.

 


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's deep, unforgiving space on the outer rim, and not a lot of mechs waste their time in it. The ones that do are always a little odd, but apparently, Mistral owes them her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So today is kind of a cool day! Exactly two years ago I posted the first oneshot that would eventually get more chapters, and become Fledgling! This is actually a perfect chapter to post on that anniversary imo, which readers from the first fic might agree with!
> 
> As always, comments are like gold and I appreciate them so much. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!

“What's that here?”

“What's what?”

Airstrike tapped the nav screen, then pointed through the windshield. “UFO, 11 o'clock, roughly half a cycle away. Looks damaged.”

“So?” Contrail shifted, putting his feet up on Airstrike's armrest. “Probably part of a ship.”

“How many ships are bright white?” Airstrike asked. The bigger mech had narrowed his optics, leaning forward in the same moment as he pushed away Contrail's feet. “I think it's a mech.”

“UFS, then,” Contrail said. “Unidentified Flying Someone. Who cares? They probably died in that firefight.”

“Quick scan, _Cumulus,_ ” Airstrike said to the nav screen. He had gotten intrigued, which meant he would want to know more, which would mean Contrail would have to deal with him _getting to the bottom of it_ and they'd probably have to chase scraplets out of the workroom, again.

Contrail watched the screens load up, and take their data...and _beep,_ which was unusual. Airstrike smiled. He always got excited, when there was something unusual for him to unfold. “Life sign. Not dead, Contrail. But probably not conscious, if they're drifting. Speed us up?”

Contrail sighed, wings flicking. He and his ship had really enjoyed their relaxing glide to their next destination. “The boss won't like us going off-course.”

“The boss is in recharge,” Airstrike said. “And she'll be even more upset if she finds out we didn't check out a life sign, on a winged mech.”

“Yeah,” Contrail said, his voice a sigh. “That's true. Coming in now, Striker, so get your scans while they're hot.”

Now it was clear that this wasn't debris, it was an alt mode. It was no longer just gleaming white, because it caught colours so much more _interesting_ than white even out in space. There were several open, rather nasty looking points of damage, spattered with energon.

Airstrike's optics gleamed, in the way Contrail normally loved but today made his spark prickle in annoyance. Examined life signs had never actually _yielded_ anything, so the boss only ever had parts brought aboard. Primus only knew what would happen if it turned out to be an Autobot, or a hostile mechanical. Or another scraplet nest.

Of course, she wasn't there to see how _intrigued_ Airstrike was getting, and Contrail had a feeling he knew where this living collection of parts would end up.

“What's wrong?” Airstrike asked him, turning that gleam his way. “I thought you wanted adventure, Contrail. Tractor beam.”

“I _do_ like adventure,” Contrail said. “You know, proper adventures, where the three of us dock the ship and hide our brands so we can get into mischief. You know, trine stuff. Not bringing random dying mechs onto my baby—“

“It's a ship,” Airstrike interrupted. “It's _our_ ship, not _your_ baby.”

“It's our ship,” said a voice behind them, making them both jump, “but it _is_ kind of Contrail's baby. What did you find, Airstrike?”

“A mech, boss,” Airstrike said, calm much too quickly. His optics still had that excited gleam, so bright they were starting to look orange. “Alive. Permission to bring them aboard?”

“I wish you'd use my name.” Updraft stepped between their seats, and Contrail sat a little straighter without thinking.

“Let me see,” she said, and Contrail leaned out of the way. She was tiny, wouldn't let Airstrike upgrade her taller, but she was, no matter what she said, the boss. Her optics narrowed, one hand moving to her chin.

“I guess they were hurt in that firefight,” Airstrike was saying. “No weapons systems I can see, but it's a superficial scan, and the only way to know would be to put them in the workroom...boss?”

Airstrike could at least observe more than one thing at a time. So he'd seen, as Contrail had just noticed, how Updraft's wings had dipped down and her shoulders had gone stiff. She had a very strange look on her face, one unsettling enough that Contrail reached for her wrist.

“Updraft?” he asked. She looked at him, because he'd said her name. “What's wrong?”

“I...” She gave her head a little shake. “Nothing, Contrail. I'm dandy. Bring them aboard right now.”

Contrail activated the tractor beam, and prepared the airlock, watching out the corner of his optic for what the other two's wings might be doing. Updraft's had started to _twitch._

“Do you...know them?” Airstrike asked nervously. “You're scratching the armrest.”

“No,” Updraft said immediately. Her optics were so wide, Contrail kind of wanted to hug her. “Of course not. So bring them aboard.”

“Airlock's opening,” Contrail said. “And, uh, sure. Makes sense.”

Airstrike jumped up, enthusiastic again. “I'll get them! Boss, can we put off my lesson? I want to look into repairs on them.”

“The spark signature's strong,” Updraft said. She sounded more like herself, her wings held a fraction higher. “The wounds are probably superficial. Airstrike, we'll have to postpone that lesson you wanted, if you want to check them out. I'll take your place here in case of anything else.”

“ _Thank you!_ ” Airstrike called over his shoulder. His footfalls were heavy, because that big frame he'd wanted wasn't fit for running.

Quickly Updraft sat, and Contrail got a trine-wide comm: _If they wake up, no one was alarmed. I probably don't know them, and they could very well be hostile. Careful._

Contrail's own wings were twitching, as he watched Updraft suddenly become very interested in the nav screen and their instruments. She didn't like to be around other mechs, so this was doing nothing but really confusing Contrail—something he considered unfair, when out of the three of them he was confused the most. She didn't even really let the bots she _liked_ on board, because it was their place, and it could be a safety issue. So she said.

There were a number of things about the boss Contrail had never quite placed.

“We still have a destination to reach,” she said finally. “Airstrike is going to be otherwise occupied with his mystery, and the autopilot's not quite fixed yet, so I'll need your full attention for once.”

Contrail grinned. Being teased was normal, and she didn't mean anything by it. “Calculating route now.”

Nothing was ever normal for them, but there was a trick to making it feel like it was. Contrail relaxed, and sunk into pilot mode again.

 

* * *

Mistral woke up slowly.

It was the kind of fuzz you onlined into after a medical procedure, or just after upgrade. Her first instinct was that she was back on Caminus, waking up after she’d cracked her head on the schoolyard and had needed that emergency surgery. She expected Windblade to be sitting there for a moment, dozing in a nearby chair…

…And she wouldn't be there, of course. Mistral was probably dead, and Windblade was at home asking an old rusty Titan for guidance on how to go on.

A bright light shone in her face, and a warning flashed in her drive. So, probably not dead, because it was a much less alarming yellow now. She squinted, almost bringing a hand up to cover her optics before realizing she was still in alt mode. Her helm ached, almost as much as the time she’d cracked it open. And there were voices outside.

That was enough to make her shift, enough to scan the place. It hurt but wasn’t sharp, so she decided she would manage it. She was a low-ceiling room, with the kind of things you’d see in a messy repair bay strewn around…but also bean bag chairs? And a big holoscreen, to her right? She refreshed her optics and it seemed like the room had almost been halved. One side looked more like their sitting room on Caminus, but the other had a berth that she'd been set on, and work tables lining the walls. Boxes were everywhere, stuffed full of junk.

Was she restrained? No. Good. With a grunt of effort, she transformed, and almost found herself flopping off the berth with a yelp.

The voices paused, and turned to footsteps. When the door hissed open Mistral had one leg on the berth and one dangling off, her better arm holding her rather ungracefully in place. The pain really was sharp when she pulled herself quickly into a sitting position. Truly the picture of Seeker grace.

“Hey, whoa, whoa!” said the bigger mech, stepping through the door. “Be careful! I can’t make the finer repairs yet.” When she flinched he stopped in place, holding out his hands. He was tall and broad at the shoulders, but he just looked a bit alarmed, not particularly harmless.

Until she noticed his big, arm-mounted rocket launchers, which she decided she would refuse to look at until further notice.

Mistral noticed three big things in that second. One, that the other mech was a lot smaller than her or her friend. Two, that they were clearly Seekers, and Mistral hadn’t been near one since her parents walked away.

And three, that they both had Decepticon symbols branded neatly on their wings.

She let herself relax.

Right away the bigger mech was checking some readings, tilting his head with interest whenever he looked up at her. He was saying something, but Mistral didn’t quite hear it. She was busy staring at the smaller Seeker—specifically, because she was looking at _her._

She wasn’t fast enough to hide from Mistral her alarm, or how her wings pricked right up in a ridiculously Vosian way. Still, she straightened up faster than Mistral would have, and the way she looked at her next made her think _officer._ Firm and looking for something, the way her sire had looked at his students.

So she’d found her Decepticons, and that was certainly something.

“Uh…hey, Seeker?” said the big mech. She looked up, and realized he was talking to her. “I asked if you have any pain, especially in the legs.”

“Oh, uh, some,” she said. “It’s not severe, so—ow, ow, maybe it is a little.”

So don’t put pressure on the left foot. The right felt better, and if she was careful she could probably stand. The big mech nodded, and she got a better look while he checked his screens. Mostly very dark grey plating, with purple accents she’d almost call fashionable. She’d never seen yellow optics like his, with that amber tinge, and wondered if that was a spark colour she'd simply missed.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to transform,” he was saying. “You’re very, very lucky, though. The damage was mostly superficial. And we’ve got some extra feet lying around.”

This time Mistral tried to listen, but she was aware that the officer Seeker was staring at her. She tried to look at her out of the corner of her optic, because she made _something_ tug at her spark. But it had been so long since she’d been near other Seekers that maybe it was her emotion swelling bright.

“You have no insignias,” said the small Seeker. Definitely an officer, even at two thirds her friend's height—they all had that authority. And a Vosian accent, which meant Mistral had guessed right. “I didn’t realize Camiens had Seekers.”

“Well, they don’t,” Mistral said quickly. “I’m Cybertronian.”

“You have the accent, though,” the big mech said. “And you were flying alone in Camien space. With no insignias.”

“I _lived_ there for awhile, but Caminus has no Seekers,” she said, more insistently. Discomfort tugged at her spark—she hadn’t realized she’d picked up an _accent._ Of course no one would have told her, on _Caminus_. “You’re Decepticons.”

The smaller Seeker had almost tilted her head, still staring at her. “We are. Is that a problem?”

“No!” Mistral said quickly. “No, not at all. Decepticons—Decepticon Seekers, even—were exactly who I wanted to find. I’m a Decepticon too.”

The big mech paused. He’d started rummaging through a large box, and appeared with something like a foot. “But no brands. And from a neutral colony. And no weapons systems to speak of.”

“I wasn’t old enough when I was with them,” Mistral said. “Just a sparklet. I was sent away to be safe, but the war's still going on, and—”

“You want to join up,” the small Seeker interrupted.

Mistral finally noticed that this particular Seeker was beautiful, even through how sharply she looked at her. Black limbs and wings, with just enough red and gold on the chassis and helm to catch any optic. Red optics so bright they burned. Even out here, she obviously took care of herself.

“Yeah,” Mistral said finally. “It’s time I did my part, and Caminus is no great place these days anyway.”

“Energy crisis, yeah,” the big Seeker said. “We came following a fuel lead and found out you’ve run dry.”

Mistral shrugged. “It was never a rich world. Common misconception, I've heard.”

The small Seeker stared at her a moment longer. Mistral wondered how you could tell if someone recognized you, and pushed down her rush of hope that she could help. Then she held out her hand.

“I'm Updraft,” she said, and Mistral hadn’t expected how much it would hurt to hear Vosian. “The one setting up your new foot is Airstrike, and you have him to thank. He found your spark signature.”

“Uh…thank you,” Mistral said. She took the hand for as little time as she could get away with. Airstrike gave her a nod, but he was fiddling with the foot in his workspace. “Mistral. Thank you for your help, Updraft.”

There was that flash in her optics again. Quickly, Updraft shook it away, making a point of turning to Airstrike instead. Maybe an old Vosian name struck her as odd, so far out here?

“I think I can just take some parts from this foot and fix hers,” Airstrike announced. “The self-repair might take a couple of weeks, though.”

“We’ll be in transit about that long,” Updraft said. She turned back, and she was sharp and questioning again. “So, Mistral. You want to join up.”

“Of course,” Mistral said. “I have to do my duty.”

Something twitched in Updraft’s wings that Mistral didn’t like. “Do you get a lot of war news out in Caminus? Do you know who’s winning?”

Mistral paused. Updraft wasn’t being…unkind, not exactly, but she didn’t like this. She vented in deeply, pulling up what she remembered from their few bulletins.

“Well…I hope us,” she said. “We don’t hear too much about it, to be honest. Even before that, I grew up on the eastern Fleet. We were mostly on the edge of things.”

“Yeah, you would have been,” Updraft mused. “Here’s how it is, Mistral: the Decepticons have more firepower, mechs—Vehicons—and nominal control of Cybertron. But no one’s winning.”

That certainly sounded like winning to her. Mistral’s spark rolled nervously. “So the Autobots…?”

“Scattered, hungry, and outnumbered,” Updraft said. “We're all that too, don't worry. Just with more guns. I say no one is winning because most of us are dead. Since you left, the planet also died, and we've had to look elsewhere for energon.

How many was _most of us?_ A lot of mechs had already been dead when Mistral left, but some Cybertronian cities had still been lit up. And Updraft said it all so clinically, like she was talking about a daily patrol and not the fate of their race.

Airstrike leaned forward, looking at her curiously. “It’s hard to believe you weren’t aware of _any_ of it,” he said.

Mistral’s optics went sharp. “We were dealing with our own energy crisis. The authorities tried to keep us insulated.” She folded her arms, sinking a fraction lower. “The last big push I remember was something about a Crucible. My…ship tried to keep me shielded, though. I was pretty young.”

“The mechs on your ship must have cared very much,” Updraft said, tilting her head.

Mistral remembered how Skywarp and Thundercracker had kept her in arm's reach whenever other Decepticons were nearby, even in public sections. Vehicons only looked sidelong at her, but her parents had warned her early not to associate with mechs she wasn't first introduced to—and certainly not to find herself alone with them. She was small, they said, and needed to wait till she was strong.

Well, she was strong now, but they had weapons and she didn't. And maybe after all these sketched-out plans, she could try and be careful this once.

“Uh, yeah,” Mistral said after a moment. “They were Seeker lieutenants in Decepticon Air Command. Skywarp and Thundercracker. I actually left to look for them.”

Updraft's lips moved, and her optics went almost white for a moment. With all the flickering, Mistral was surprised they didn't short out. Airstrike had stopped whatever he was doing, and Mistral realized she was leaning forward, expectant.

When Updraft's wings dipped, her spark dropped deep into her chest.

“I know them,” she said finally. “Maybe I still do. It's been...a long time since we were in touch, very early in the war. Were they—you—with the Eastern Fleet?”

“Yes,” Mistral said, nodding eagerly, and her spark sang again. Yes, thank Primus for a good Vosian Seeker! Of course she would know of them. “They had command posts there when they sent me away.”

“Why'd they send you away?” Airstrike asked, interrupting. Mistral scowled, though his voice held only interest.

“I was a sparklet,” she said. “The Fleet wasn't safe for me. Where is it now?”

Airstrike whistled. “Fancy,” he said. “The boss here was sparked too, so she says.”

“A long time ago,” Updraft said, shifting on her feet. “Well before the war. Anyway, that's the thing. Megatron consolidated some of his forces after some major battles, and the Eastern and Western Fleets were formed into one. And that big move failed—everyone's scattered anyway, and communications are spotty.”

“Especially out here,” Airstrike said. “Out of on the edge of nothing, that's us.”

Updraft's lip quirked, almost a smile. “I thought that was just the way you liked it?”

“Is there a way to check if they're alive?” Mistral asked, hating the edge of desperation her voice held. “A bigger base where I could get some answers?”

“It's been about ten thousand years since we visited a _bigger base,_ ” said a new voice. The mech who came through the doorway was close to Mistral's height and sleek, his long green wings and gleaming chassis accented optic-yellow. His own yellow optics fell on her (that same yellow-orange as Airstrike's) and he grinned. “I see you've met the trine. I'm Contrail, the left wing, and the very coolest. You're on the _Cumulus,_ my ship and my baby.”

Airstrike snorted. “Very charming, for a mech who didn't want her aboard.”

Contrail shrugged. “We didn't know she was harmless yet.”

“I'm not _harmless,_ ” Mistral said without thinking. “I'm a Seeker, same as you. _With_ melee training.”

“I'll be scared of little baby Camiens when I see it.”

“Alright,” Updraft said. Contrail paused right away, but his grin stayed put. Then he actually _winked_ at Mistral, and she resolved to watch out for him. “Well, now you've met all of us. Mistral, when was the last time you were in touch with the lieutenants? When you were left on Caminus?”

“No, ma'am,” Mistral said. “After. We exchanged correspondence until about 3rd cycle 4005, then it dropped off.”

“No _ma'am,”_ Updraft said. She'd started to pace, and her small feet clicked softly on the floor. “These two already insist on calling me boss, so you can just call me Updraft. You realize it's been millions of years since 3 rd cycle 4005?”

Mistral tried to quell her own spark. “Of course I know that,” she said. “I mean...the days start to run together, but we're long lived.”

“When were you upgraded?” Updraft asked curiously.

“When I was supposed to be,” Mistral said. “If you _were_ sparked, you'd know that.”

“I was upgraded early,” Updraft said, and Mistral could tell in a second that the subject was closed. “Anyway, you were lucky. There were only ever a handful of sparklets in either army, and most had to grow up fast. The moment their sparks could take it, actually. Adulthood is safer, and like you said—we're long lived.”

“Long lived minus millennia-spanning wars,” Airstrike said quietly.

Updraft sighed. “A rough estimate will help me this second, Mistral. We want to help.”

Mistral was teetering on whether or not that was true, but she was suddenly sorely lacking in choices. “About three thousand years ago. Just at the beginning of our energy crisis.”

Contrail leaned against the wall, optics brighter. “Just a little bitlet! Wow, are you ever about to get educated.”

“Three thousand years is plenty,” Mistral said, straightening up. “Mechs younger than me fight all the time.”

Instantly Contrail's features went solemn. His wings stiffened as he folded his arms. “Oh, we know,” he said. “Most of them aren't sparklets, though.”

“Well,” Updraft said, “we certainly wouldn't stop you. But we don't get involved in a lot of activity here on the outskirts.”

“What about that battle I was near?” Mistral asked skeptically. “You must have been involved in that.”

“Energy skirmish,” Airstrike said. “We happened to be in the neighbourhood, but we never stick around. We're not really in touch with the main forces.”

“We keep to ourselves,” Contrail added.

Mistral frowned. That wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, when she needed to find _her_ family and where they'd been flung away. Not a strange trine with an unsettled leader who stared, and her two strange, friendly wingmechs. “Where's the nearest Decepticon base? Could you take me there?”

All three of them looked at her, and Mistral tried to sit up straighter. “We don't...generally visit the bases,” Updraft said finally. “The nearest one is a space station in the Hydrus quandrant.”

She _was_ hiding things, and Mistral would find them out once she had settled this business. If she had a chance, and wasn't pushed right out the airlock.

“Well, can you drop me off there?” Mistral asked, more insistently. “I need to become a Decepticon. It's the only way to find them.”

“I guess it is,” Updraft said. Her voice was soft now.

“Hold on,” Contrail said. He jerked his thumb in Mistral's direction, and then tilted his head towards Airstrike. “He's about learned what he has to, and that's kind of out of our way. Of _your_ business, boss.”

Updraft's optics flared, and her face flushed darker in embarrassment. “We're dropping her off,” she said, more firmly. “You call me boss, so I'm the boss, Contrail.”

He sighed, and slumped. “Guess that's true,” he said, clearly skeptical. He jerked his thumb again, wings flapping once as he did. “You got anything to give us?”

The look Updraft gave him was withering, but Mistral sat up straighter. “Shanix,” she said. “I've still got 1000 shanix from Caminus.”

Airstrike's optics brightened with interest. “Not bad for this part of the galaxy. Guess you Camiens have nothing to spend it on.”

“I'm not Camien,” she snapped. She turned back to Updraft. “You can have it if you take me to that space station. I guess _you_ can't brand me before I get there?”

Updraft went stiffer (impressive, considering how unsettled she already seemed to be). “I could, if you wanted me to. I'm an Armada lieutenant, if they haven't changed the rosters.”

Mistral stared at her. Then she reset her optics, and made herself calm. Everything was already weird and crazy, so what was one more thing, like this little officer Seeker being a proper _lieutenant_? “What are you doing out _here_? Even the Eastern Fleet wasn't _that_ isolated!”

“Because I want to be,” she said. She stepped around, to look at Mistral from another angle. “Anyway, if you really wanted to be branded, I could do it. You'd still need someone from high command to officiate you, but you'd be accepted at the station like this. Are you sure?”

“Of course,” said Mistral. “How many times do I have to say it?”

Updraft smiled, but it didn't have humour. “How many indeed. I'll accept 300 shanix for each of these two, and that'll keep us going till our next run-in with someone rich.”

“She had 1000,” Contrail said quietly.

“And she might need it to bribe Turmoil, if he's still running that place,” Updraft said. Her optics dimmed, and paused, nearer to the door. “Is that a deal, Mistral? 600 shanix for a trip to Hydrus II, a brand, and company.”

Her only other option was to keep trying her luck on her own, and she had quickly learned why that was never going to work. Mistral stood—carefully this time—and reached out. It only took a moment for Updraft to clasp her hand in agreement. “Deal.”

Updraft stepped back. “It's settled, then,” she said. “Airstrike, finish up with her foot if you can. She'll need less fuel if her self-repair's not struggling with her legs. Contrail, the autopilot only functions for so long without checking on it. I'm still exhausted, so...”

“Again?” Airstrike asked. Mistral heard the worry in his voice. “You've recharged half the week. Do _you_ need a bigger ration?”

Updraft waved her hand. “Lots of benefits to this little frame,” she said. “I don't need it. Nice meeting you, Mistral.”

She went through the doorway, and Mistral was left with the other two mechs. Airstrike went back to his spare foot, but Contrail watched her a moment longer.

“This is weird,” he said quietly. “You're not lying.”

“No,” Mistral said immediately, still affronted from half this conversation. “Of course not.”

Contrail tilted her head. “Most of us aren't truthful, it's in our name. It's why we keep to ourselves. Maybe 'cause you're a bitlet, with pretty paint.”

Mistral scowled. “I'm not a _bitlet.”_

“The boss sent you back to business,” Airstrike said. Contrail narrowed his optics at her one last time anyway.

“Well, then to business I go. Try not to make the boss act so weird, Mistral,” he said. Then he disappeared too.

After a moment, Mistral sat back down. Airstrike was obviously busy, and there was nothing else for her _to_ do. After some time of her sitting quietly, mulling over this cramped ship and just how much she'd been told, her thoughts turned to Cybertron.

This trine was obviously odd, and asocial, and probably didn't even _want_ to go back to Cybertron when it was safe. It couldn't be as bad as a dead planet without energon, and if it was, she was going to kill an Autobot sooner than she'd planned. They probably wrecked the place so their side couldn't enjoy it. But maybe it was easier to feel like their race was endangered when you lived this far away from anybody in the war. She'd take it with a grain of sodium.

“You can power down if you want,” Airstrike said after a few minutes, jolting her back. “It'd be better not to attach this awake.”

“Yeah,” Mistral said, immediately lying back and pulling her legs back up. “Yeah, that's right. Powering down.”

She dozed off into a simple stasis, wondering about Cybertron. About Vos. She wondered what tower Updraft had been in when they fell.

 

* * *

 

Airstrike checked on Updraft later, when Mistral was still sleeping off the stasis. She'd been lucky, very lucky, with most superficial wounds and energon loss as the main culprit of her unconsciousness. The foot and new plating had been simple to attach, because she'd been so well built. Definitely grew up well, like Updraft had. If they hadn't found her when they had, though—

Well, Updraft might be more like herself if they hadn't. Her presence was clearly agitating, on top of everything else their trine leader seemed to wrestle with. With her clearly being sick, and so exhausted, Airstrike was wondering if it would have been better if someone else had picked Mistral up.

Maybe with how the war had gone, a young Seeker would be better off going offline in peace.

Updraft turned in her narrow berth, her optics glowing faintly in the dark. Airstrike shook his dark thoughts away—she obviously wanted this Seeker here for a reason.

“How are you feeling?” he murmured.

Updraft sat up slowly. Her optics brightened a fraction, and she shrugged. “Fine. I keep telling you, I'm just tired. How's our Seeker?”

“Oh, very lucky,” he said. “I think her self-repair will take care of the rest.”

“Good,” Updraft said. “If she survives long enough on that base, maybe a proper doctor can tune her up. Give her some defense systems.”

“I've been thinking about that,” Airstrike said. “I cleaned her up a bit, and her colour's even more vivid than we though. I'll tell her she should get repainted, and it might make things easier.”

“She might be upset about that,” Updraft said. He could hear the smile in her voice now. “We Vosians are awfully vain.”

“You changed yours,” Airstrike said. Updraft shrugged, her wings flicking.

“I wanted to,” she said. “I'm not the same person I was when I was all red and gold.”

“You know,” Airstrike said, more quietly. “You don't have to be so cryptic all the time, boss. It might help Contrail and me to know—“

“Know what?” Updraft asked, a little more sharply. Optics on him, she lay back down slowly, shuffling into a more comfortable position on her berth. Airstrike could hardly see her in the dark of the bottom bunk. Only her optics, dark red and pulsing softly.

“Know what you've lost,” Airstrike said after a moment. “All you mechs from before the war, you've lost someone.”

Her little hand was on her wrist, and he knew then that the subject was closed. His spark sank—another time, maybe.

“Don't worry about me,” she said. “And I haven't lost everything. I have you.”

Airstrike smiled. “You're a lucky Seeker, boss. And,” he added, his optics glinting with mischief. “I believe we're still stopping for your little rendezvous?”

Her hand lightly slapped his wrist, but she was grinning in the dark. “I thought you two didn't like those.”

“We don't,” Airstrike said. “But it cheers you right up.”

“You're too soft a spark for this army,” Updraft said. “You and Contrail both. Get some recharge soon.”

“After Contrail,” Airstrike said. “Until we get those parts for the nav I don't want the cockpit alone long.”

“Good plan,” Updraft said. Her optics went dark suddenly, and she turned over, adjusting her wings carefully. She recharged too much now, and she wouldn't let Airstrike so much as scan her. _Not a doctor,_ she'd say, as if he wasn't the best they had.

He stood there for a moment, but she didn't move again. At least she _was_ recharging—Airstrike had already decided the alternative would be worse.

He'd check on Mistral, and mix some paint colours. Maybe even mess with those nav parts himself from the stuff in his boxes, see if he could speed it along. He missed recharging next to Contrail, instead of in shifts. With Updraft not well, they'd been pulling double shifts, and 'back to normal' was looking further and further away.

But it had always been worse. There was energon in the cache, a working, moving ship, bullets in the guns...and problems to solve. So Airstrike would get to work.

 


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Decepticon royal family. They're about as dysfunctional as you would expect, but the Emperor has found a way to make things even more frightening. It's certainly not easy to come of age in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for a bit of a wait between updates, but I had some real life stuff to attend to. We're changing POVs again, and everyone can get a look at the absolute zoo that is the Nemesis while we're at it! The TFP canon is really, really fun to cut up and hot glue back together.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated, and I really love the feedback I've gotten so far. Enjoy!!

Starscream had three rules for Chandelle.

All carefully chosen, after long years of deliberation and experience in this very subject. Granted, the circumstances were different now, what with the war, and no trine, and closer quarters than he preferred aboard this ship, but he had become a master of adaptation.

How else was one supposed to raise a good Decepticon aboard this rickety ship?

The first rule was not to talk back. To Starscream especially, but it certainly didn’t hurt to extend it to Lord Megatron. Maybe that had been his first mistake last time, to not only have such an accident as a sparklet, but to have such a headstrong one with such a useless contributor. A powerful sire was a good sire, even if these days he was showing his age.

In a manner of speaking. He had been relieved to find that no one knew he was a good several millennia older than their liege.

“Chandelle!” he called loudly. There was no answer, so he rapped his fingers on the table. “Chandelle, pet, get out here! I want to look you over.”

No answer from the side room. Starscream scowled. The second rule was, naturally, to come when he called. Key if she was going to be part of this operation, until she rose through their ranks and would only take her orders from Starscream.

And if she wouldn’t bother _now,_ who was to say how much he’d struggle with her later. Still scowling, he marched up to rap sharply on her door.

Before he could make contact, it opened. His daughter's red optics stared expectantly at his, of a height with him. Her steel gray wings flicked, and he was pleased to see they weren’t lopsided today. She hadn’t settled into her upgrade nearly as well as Updraft, but her progress was clear. As soon as whatever lousy mech would replace the last doctor appeared, Starscream would see to it that she was set straight.

“I can’t teleport to your side, you know,” Chandelle said, with almost charming imperiousness. She stepped past him. “And I'm ready.”

“You should have been ready an hour ago,” he said, arms folding. “Then I wouldn’t have to call you at all.”

Chandelle had sat down in the windowsill, her long legs swinging. “Then there’s no point of me coming when called. I can’t be attached at your hip, unfortunately.”

“Now, Chandelle of the _Nemesis,_ you're not to talk back, either,” Starscream said. “It’s poor manners for a princess, and more importantly, disrespectful to me.”

She rolled her optics, so he rapped his knuckles once on her helm. She winced (not yelped, he noted with pleasure), and felt for dents, but of course he had left none. He had gotten good at that.

When he’d crossed the room, to check his console, he heard her murmur. “Rolling your eyes isn’t _talking back._ ”

Primus help him. If there was one thing Updraft had never done till the end, it was sass him. But maybe it was better to let this offspring get it out while she could.

He would have answered, but there was a ring at his door. He growled, whirling around. Chandelle finally looked up with some interest, and Starscream keyed the door open with as much annoyance as he could show.

The only blue visor aboard the ship looked down at him.

“Air Commander,” Sonata said, so respectful that Starscream wanted to throttle him. Instead he stepped back and motioned for the mech to come in. What else were you supposed to do when Megatron’s first offspring came knocking?

Chandelle brightened right away, for what reason Starscream couldn’t fathom. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her to understand rivalry, or just who it was on this ship that was safe.

His third rule, and the one she struggled most to follow: trust only her carrier, because no one else was safe.

Sonata's lips twitched as Chandelle walked up, and he took her hand for a moment in what must have been affection. Chandelle smiled, her optics already brighter. Starscream steamed.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” she asked. “Soundwave must be busy.”

“He always is,” Starscream said briskly. “Now, Sonata, we were just getting ready as well. Will this be quick?”

Technically, he outranked the scrap. But _technically_ would not overrule Megatron’s firstborn, and most recent favourite, even if Starscream was within his rights to kick him out.

“Of course,” Sonata said. Unlike his carrier, Sonata had no qualms about speaking—at least, when he was addressed. He turned to Chandelle, something Starscream pretended wasn’t a snub. “Sire would like to see us first,” he said. “I believe we’ll walk in with him when he makes his address.”

Chandelle’s wings dipped just a fraction—fear. Sonata, millions of years older, had never indicated Megatron made him nervous, but he was of a height with his sire, sleek and angled like his carrier. Deep blue paint, nothing like Chandelle's slate-grey.

Worst of all, Megatron liked him, and favoured him, just as he favoured Soundwave. It was just so _unfair._

“I thought he was arriving in an hour,” Chandelle said. Sonata shook his head.

“He’s early, and sent word ahead.” He really did smile then, and Starscream’s spark hummed with rage. “We haven’t caught up since your upgrade, sister.”

This was a foolish young mech, and Chandelle was equally a fool to let her guard down so openly. Primus only knew what Soundwave taught him to hide under that respectful façade, and what sort of intel he was gleaning even now.

To Chandelle's credit, she looked at Starscream first. “We shouldn’t keep Lord Megatron waiting,” she said.

She was right, and her carrier had to reluctantly wave one hand and agree. “Certainly not,” he sighed. “Go on, then. Find me right after the speech, and not a moment later.”

“Yes, carrier.” Then she’d gone through the door, attention fully on Sonata. When the door snapped shut behind him, Starscream allowed himself a frustrated growl.

“It’s not as if she'll come to harm,” he told himself. “Soundwave is too _loyal_ to bring harm to Megatron’s sparklet, and Sonata falls in step with him. She must make good impressions on our _liege.”_

This was all true, at least for now. One day he’d be that liege, and she’d be first in line, not that Autobot eyed bookworm. And Sonata would next have the pleasure of deciding where his loyalties lay.

* * *

 

“My carrier doesn’t like you,” Chandelle said. It wasn’t derogatory, or an apology, but a statement of fact.

Sonata looked down, surprised. “Of course not. He never has.”

“Yeah, but why?” she asked. Chandelle wasn’t exactly tall, and her strides were fast to keep up with Sonata’s. “Even Starscream has _reasons_ for disliking people, but you’ve always been nothing but respectful to him. You even fly with the fleet sometimes.”

Sonata's lips quirked again. Chandelle wished he’d just _smile_ already sometimes, not always bite it down, but maybe it was for the best. Smiles like that didn’t earn respect, or strike fear.

“Air Commander Starscream would never like me,” he said. “As long as we can continue to coexist, that’s all we can hope for.”

He rested a hand on her head, and she stiffened. Before her upgrade, he’d done that often—when she’d really had no standing beyond “princess,” and could go visit her brother while Starscream was busy and Soundwave looked the other way. Chandelle hadn't known what freedom was then, not until she'd grown up and found she had none.

She looked up at him mischievously. “He doesn’t make coexisting easy for anyone.”

“No,” Sonata said. “And I guess you’d know, if anyone did. How’s your upgrade? Still itchy?”

Chandelle frowned, her wings twitching, and she quickly made sure they felt symmetrical. Starscream was always on her thrusters about it, and she didn’t know how to tell him that she couldn’t help it.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure it’ll be better soon.”

Sonata frowned, and Chandelle looked straight ahead. Of course he’d notice something was wrong. He seemed to know whenever something was wrong with _anyone,_ and Chandelle wondered if he and Soundwave really could read minds. (Of course she listened to all the drone rumours, no matter what Starscream lectured. When she was small, they'd spoken freely around her, and a good listener picked up a lot.)

“It's been nearly one year on this planet, right? You should have settled.” He finally moved his hand away from her helm, and Chandelle almost saw the gears turning in his head. “We’re getting a new chief medical officer today. I’m sure they can get a good look at you.”

Chandelle suppressed a shudder, and wondered if they’d warn the new mech about her in advance. She’d hated Flatline and Flatline had hated her, because he could carve up metal and because she was, as he’d called her, “Mortilus’s spawn” if an injection got near.

Anyway, he was dead, and of course he’d been wrong. She wasn’t the spawn of Mortilus—that was her sire, if anyone. That would make her a grandspawn.

She sighed. “I _suppose_ if the first in line thinks I need a doctor, I have to oblige him. It's more important if the doctor can save more troops, though. We're low.”

Sonata’s visor pulsed darker blue. “I think the Autobots have new recruits,” he said, more quietly. “The intel’s not lining up yet, but we think one is a flier. That's why the death rate has been higher.”

Chandelle looked up in surprise. “Autobots don’t really fly though, so they? The high classes were mostly racers.”

“Oh, you know better than that,” Sonata said. “Your carrier was the highest caste of flier. And Lord Megatron didn’t fly before an overhaul or three.”

“It's still awfully skewed,” Chandelle said. “But I guess that’s why we’ll win.”

Sonata didn’t answer. They were at the hangar, and Chandelle watched him carefully as he smoothed out his wings and straightened his shoulders. Soundwave must have taught him how to stand perfectly for Lord Megatron, so she did her best to emulate him.

He did everything right. Why wasn’t he one of the Warriors Elite, or a general?

Soundwave was already there when the doors slid open. That worried Chandelle—Starscream would take it as a deliberate snub against his standing, not as a debriefing or even just a whim. Soundwave was only communications director, not a commander of troops, but he was her sire's favourite, and his firstborn's carrier.

And Sonata was as old as the Cause. They had been together much longer than her carrier had been a Decepticon.

The doors closed, and Sonata stiffened. Chandelle looked straight ahead, in case she was caught staring, and tried to see what it was he’d seen.

Megatron stood close by Soundwave, and his bulk still made Chandelle shiver in her struts. He only seemed slightly less towering than when she’d been a sparklet, but she could no longer hide behind Starscream’s legs. They weren’t alone, a scattering of Vehicons and a couple of new mechs standing nearby, at ease. She didn’t look too closely, especially not when their sire turned to them.

Chandelle might have been new in her upgrade, but she knew the protocol. She and Sonata dropped into kneels, heads bent in respect for the Emperor. The only difference now was that she didn’t peek up, they way she would have as a little sparklet.

Megatron turned, and his steps didn’t echo in silence. Chandelle didn’t relax, even if that meant her sire was happy. Angry was worst, with indifference close behind.

“Dear Chandelle,” he said. A huge clawed hand tipped her chin up, and she tried to look brave and proud. Megatron’s smiles were always cruel. “How lovely you’re getting.”

Chandelle caught herself in time. “Thank you, my liege,” she said, and her voice didn’t quake. She knew Sonata’s visor was on her, and that the new mechs had stopped to look. He was in a _very_ good mood, to even notice her.

“Get up, then,” he said, stepping back. She and Sonata did as asked, and she saw out of the corner of her optic that her brother had stiffened up. “You’ve grown up quite striking, child, but that’s expected. I will have to see what your carrier has filled your head with in my absence.”

“Yes, my liege,” she said, because there was nothing else to say. Sonata pinged her comm, probably to tell her she’d done well, but his plating was still ruffled with discomfort. He'd never liked this stuff.

“Welcome home,” Sonata said. His wings moved into place slowly, like he was making an effort to keep them there. Megatron turned that knife of a smile onto him.

“Only so much changes, I see,” he said. “Soundwave has spoken highly of your role in mapping a new energon vein. Under an ocean, I believe?”

“Quite deep,” he said. “We’ll need specialized mechs to—”

Megatron waved his hand. “In good time,” he said, as if feeding the troops wasn’t a constant concern. “Perhaps after we've mined it, you can make yourself useful.”

Sonata’s optics pulsed darker for a moment, and Chandelle almost opened her mouth to defend him. She was older now, though, and knew better without Starscream having to pinch a line under her winglet in warning. Still, Sonata didn’t deserve to be snubbed. He worked hard and the drones knew to respect him (even liked him, but of course they were only nameless). She disliked seeing him snubbed, especially when he was supposed to be the favourite.

Apparently that award went to her today, and that would at least make Starscream happy. Megatron gestured to her, and she had no choice but to obey. (It was clear that this wouldn't be a day that made much sense.)

“The underlings will be assembled soon,” he said, in what he must have considered to be a warm voice. “And I have brought back what will win the war, my little Seeker.”

Being called a _Seeker_ made her prickly enough, but something about Megatron when he stood close today made her plating prickle.

“Are we going to see it?” she ended up asking. Megatron chuckled. His claw was warm on her elbow, and his optics flashed bright.

“You will,” he said. “And today, you are one of the first to know.”

Soundwave leaned in then, and Megatron forgot her to turn away and answer. It gave Chandelle time to look away and take in the new arrivals. There was a new make of Vehicon, but that was only passingly interesting. Drones came and went. The red roller she couldn’t get a good look at—they were speaking with Sonata, walking some ways ahead. They were short, though, and didn’t look terribly combat ready. Maybe they were the doctor.

The other mech had been obscured by Vehicons, and his paint was dulled and chipped. At first she'd thought he was just a new Seeker, the Kaon make, but now he stepped out. He looked her way, and Chandelle’s spark stuttered. She knew that gold faceplate anywhere.

“Dreadwing!” she said, forgetting to stop herself. “You're back! You’re _here!_ ”

Dreadwing's face softened into a smile, and she knew her wings had perked up in delight. She barely felt the itch of them moving against other parts as she rushed forward, stopping herself in time before contact. Royalty showed no affection.

“You’ve grown,” he said, taking one of her hands in both of his big ones. “I wondered if you’d still have need of a bodyguard.”

“I guess I’m too big now,” she said, her optics bright. “I thought you had a command in the third sector.”

His optics darkened, and Chandelle regretted bringing it up. Even before she’d said it, she realized, his optics looked sad. Rarely did a mech rejoin the flagship for their personal improvement. It was either a punishment, or because they were no longer needed where they were.

Her old bodyguard squeezed her hand. “There are fewer of us each day. There was no longer enough of a base for us to command. But that is not my only reason for a return.”

“What is it?” Chandelle asked. She hoped for a moment that it was her after all—her childhood guarded by Dreadwing was almost nostalgic that moment, safe and pleasant aboard the ship. Before Starscream had demanded her presence always, and had schemed about overthrowing Megatron. (Or having more royal children, or overthrowing Megatron _with_ royal children, the details of any plan something Chandelle had never been privy to.)

But maybe Starscream had always been like that, and she'd just been too young to notice.

He hated Dreadwing, and had hated that Chandelle had looked forward so much to being left with him. Maybe while her sire's mood was still good, she could ask about having a guard again.

Dreadwing shook his head, because the big hangar doors were opening. Megatron turned back, and she could only squeeze the big mech’s hand before she stepped up to her sire's left side. Sonata was on the right, with the new mechs in step behind them—

Soundwave had disappeared. So Starscream wouldn’t get to play the snubbed consort after all.

Sonata had told her once that he hated crowds. You couldn’t tell just looking at him, but he’d been doing this for so much longer than her. He’d also told her that Megatron had been uncomfortable in front of them once, but not since he’d been very small. Chandelle had obviously taken after her carrier, because optics on her were simply interesting. They made her steps light and careful and her wings less twitchy.

She had told Starscream so once, and he had laughed. Not kindly, because he never did. “Then work the crowd,” he had said. “In a manner of speaking. _Something_ has to make you stop your wings seizing like an Insecticon.”

She knew her wings were perfectly still now, her plating immaculate. She couldn’t see her carrier, but she tried not to smile at all the staring drones, anxious to see their young princess. The new arrivals especially were bad at hiding their interest, but she didn't mind. She had often used to wave their way as a very small sparklet, but she had long grown out of saying hello to drones.

Still, it was nice to be admired.

Megatron scanned the crowded hangar for a moment. Chandelle saw Airachnid, leaning languidly against a doorway, and Soundwave had reappeared at the front of the crowd. Next to him, Starscream was almost unreadable, but Chandelle saw how his optics pulsed dark at Megatron. She would have to work out later what that meant.

“My fellow Decepticons,” he began. Instantly the room seemed more still, the waves of anticipation and fear only ripples. Megatron, a practiced speaked, allowed for a beat of silence. “I am pleased to bring home not only a victory, and new troops...but the secret to our victory over the Autobots.”

There was instantly an excited murmur through the drones. Starscream's optics narrowed, brighter, and the other named troops were silent. Chandelle was too—this wasn't the first time her sire had claimed this, and it wouldn't be the last.

“I will spare you the details,” he said airily. “Suffice to say that the Autobot station Kimia has been heavily damaged, and it will be years before they make up for the damage we've done to their weapons program.”

There was the appropriate cheer from the troops. Chandelle could just _feel_ Starscream aching to ask if he'd gotten useful information for his trouble, or if this was simply another useless scheme. His jaw was working wordlessly, but perhaps Chandelle's coveted place at Megatron's side kept him silent. Or it was something else, because that hadn't stopped him before.

Megatron strode forward. “But that is simply a notch placed above many other victories. I have also brought an additional Seeker armada, and a Chief Medical Officer, to continue to serve our cause with loyalty. But, my subjects: my real prize is something truly ancient, and terrible. Something left for me in this very system, by the god-planet Unicron himself.”

The next hush was real, and Chandelle fell right into it. Unicron was a story for sparklets, one she herself had been told by Dreadwing. Even Starscream's optics had brightened with interest, though Chandelle still pieced together what his future raving would be. _“So all your_ sire _did was gallivant around the galaxy, damage one old station, and ran into some hokey old artifact in this backwater system on his crawl back? It figures.”_

“You,” Megatron said sharply. He pointed one claw at a Vehicon, who had the unfortunate luck to be standing at the front of the crowd. Wisely, the drone didn't stay put, but stepped forward with good posture and only a slight shudder. Her sire snapped the claws on his free hand.

“Bring it forward,” he said.

For the first time, Chandelle really noticed the new roller, and how his optics flashed at the covered object another drone brought forward. There was suspicion, but fear too, and both were very familiar to her. Megatron carefully removed the sheet, dropped it to the side, and rested his hand atop his prize.

“The blood of Unicron,” he breathed, and Chandelle's spark stuttered.

That had been a part of Dreadwing's stories, and now his optics were wide. Chandelle had been sure that _that_ part was fiction, if any of it, but here it was before them, Megatron's hand resting gently on it. It looked like any energon crystal, if energon crystals were purple and _pulsed,_ and seemed to wind into your very spark with nausea. From the far back of the room, Airachnid was the only one grinning. Her many legs twitched.

“Lord Megatron--” her carrier started. Soundwave had leaned forward, always silent but his posture all interest. Starscream was clearly anxious, his wings perked up high, and Chandelle really started to get worried. An anxious Starscream was one who had sussed out a real danger, and she was standing right next to it.

“Shut up, Starscream,” Megatron snapped. His fingers curled around the crystal, and Chandelle realized his optics were no longer red. His features seemed sharper, and his plating heaved. The moment he looked up, at the now-quaking Vehicon, she took a careful step back.

He didn't do anything with it right away. Instead, he lifted his fusion cannon, aimed, and fired directly through the Vehicon's chest.

The drone's optics went dark, and he dropped with a clatter. Silence.

“Megatron,” Starscream said, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “This is madness, my liege. _If_ that is truly, the blood of Unicron, and I have my doubts, it is _extremely_ dangerous!”

Chandelle pinged his comm in alarm, and received no answer. His optics were wild with the kind of interest he had for new schemes, but his posture was all fear. She decided that the latter was wiser. Megatron's optics were a wild sick purple, and it was as if she could feel his spark pulsing. Something was wrong with him, and that crystal had to be what had caused it.

“Like I said,” Megatron said, more quietly. “Shut up.”

He took a few long, careful strides across the floor, to the body of the Vehicon. The army moved as if in a wave, as far away from their lord and as close to the walls as they could. Chandelle glanced at Sonata, several frames away from Soundwave and until now out of view, and his visor blazed white. His denta were gritted, wings twitching in his effort to keep his posture together.

(Sonata read all the time, and maybe he knew what it was that was so horrible. Whether it had been real, before Megatron got back and gave them this demonstration.)

It was clearly alright, just this once, for fear to flare out, and she moved quickly towards Dreadwing as Megatron raised the crystal. His hand on her arm did little to calm her down, because childhood _was_ over, and no one could reassure her now in her fear. The whole _room_ arced with terror and confusion.

Her sire seemed to have hardly noticed that she'd moved. He crouched down, and stared for a moment at the Vehicon's body, like he'd found something pleasant to admire on a new planet. He stayed that way for a moment, and Chandelle was so surprised at seeing him below optic level that she leaned forward a little in interest. Dreadwing's grip around her arm tightened, so she stepped back. He didn't have her adult frequency, but maybe he would have told her something if he had.

Megatron slammed the crystal into the Vehicon's smoking chest, and stepped calmly back.

“Not only do we have a functioning medical bay again,” he said loudly, holding out his arms, “but our dearly departed are no longer lost to us. This dark energon is more powerful than the well, or Primus, or the _Matrix,_ and my Decepticons—it lives among this system, waiting for me to wield it.”

Only Soundwave seemed to look anything like interested, without fear. The rest of the room looked ready to flee, though for the first moment the corpse only twitched, speared through. Starscream glanced her way, and refreshed his optics once as a comm came through.

_If he starts shooting, you fly. You fly off this ship if you have to, until I call you home._

Her sire didn't shoot anything. Chandelle, and the rest of the Decepticons, had been ready for that. What they had not been ready for was for that dead Vehicon to scramble up, screaming and hissing from his mask at Megatron as he staggered forward.

Her sire laughed, but he was the only one. He _roared_ with it, his optics blazing purple, and Chandelle knew that for as long as she lived, no matter what orders, or how many Autobots were left, no one could make her touch the blood of Unicron.

She was absolutely sure the rest of the room agreed.

“Our armies will live forever, because they now have no need for the Well,” Megatron said. “Even for the living, it brings great power, fit for an Emperor. Fit for a ruling family over our Cybertron. It, too, will live again!”

When Megatron raised his fist, there was noise, and Chandelle was sure he took it for assent. But no Eradicon could be cheering in this dark energon's name after that. Something low and aching settled deep in her spark when she remembered that _she_ was part of this ruling family, and there was no getting out of it.

Sonata had obviously come to the same conclusion. His long fingers were curled into fists, and his face was dark in a way one could only inherit from their sire. The soldiers around him had given him a wide berth, as if he too was going to turn purple and start re-animating the dead.

Almost casually, her sire lifted his cannon again, pressing it directly against the Vehicon. Chandelle prepared to flee the chaos, but one loud pulse and the creature had crumpled to the floor again. Pleased, Megatron surveyed his silence. His optics landed on her, but only for a split second. He turned back to the crowd like she was beneath notice. Thank Primus.

“Knock Out,” said Megatron, to the red roller. The mech stood at attention, though he looked like someone had just shot him through the chest too. “I want the medical bay repaired and running by tomorrow, and a full study done on this substance's properties.”

“Of course, my liege,” he said. Chandelle would have laughed at his lack of enthusiasm, but she could only feel sorry for him. “Am I excused?”

He turned away, and Knock Out clearly took that as a yes. He transformed, and sped off in his Earth alt mode. Chandelle dared a look at Dreadwing, who only glanced at her and gave his head a small shake. Chandelle decided her sire had found his prize before their rendezvous.

Megatron hooked one clawed finger at Starscream. “With me,” he said, grinning, and held out his arm. Chandelle felt sick in her spark. Her carrier strutted up, as he always did, and took the offered arm, but he wasn't glowing like usual when Megatron wanted his company. He looked a little like he didn't know if he should be smug or terrified, if she was honest.

He was playing the dignified Vosian, and Chandelle fought her urge to rush up and grab him back to safety. She remembered in time that there was nothing safe here.

Drones were pouring out as fast as they could, and Airachnid had already disappeared. Chandelle saw Sonata and Soundwave's sleek backs leaving too, and now Sonata matched his carrier's calm steps. As Megatron walked back through the hangar, taking her carrier with him, Dreadwing turned her around and walked her briskly out, into the crowd. They skirted the poor Vehicon, dead twice, and Chandelle resisted the urge to run.

“If I had known _this_ was what he'd found,” Dreadwing growled, almost inaudible, “I would have taken it myself and shoved it straight up Unicron's--”

He seemed to remember who he was pulling away, and loosened his grip. “My apologies, princess,” he said, straightening up. “My language was uncouth.”

“It's okay,” Chandelle said automatically. “I think it's the most couth thing about that so far.”

Now that they were out of there, walking briskly down a wide hallway, her legs felt like liquid fuel under her. Her wings itched as badly as they ever did, and she fought the urge to flatten them out of her way.

“I will walk you to your quarters,” Dreadwing said. “And while I have troops to calm, I'll be back to post myself at your door. At least until your carrier returns.”

“He won't until morning,” Chandelle said quietly. Her shoulders slumped. “Do you think he'll get hurt? With Lord Megatron...like this?”

Dreadwing shook his head, but she couldn't feel relieved. “You're old enough to know what he wants, and it's not to stick a crystal through Starscream's chest. He'll come back unscathed.”

Chandelle didn't quite believe him, but she decided it helped a little. Dreadwing was a familiar memory, an anchor in a world that had suddenly turned strange and horrible. It was cowardly of an Emperor's daughter to do, but said Emperor had turned strange and horrible too, so she would take what she could get.

Maybe, for once, she wanted to go flying. If nothing else, it would get her out of this place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They live, they die, they live again! Starscream will be alright for now, though he's put himself in a dangerous situation millennia in the making.
> 
> Readers of my other stuff, and readers of the Fledgling oneshot Night Clinic might remember Sonata! Chandelle is new, and I hope you guys like the perspective she brings.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistral still feels out of place, but flying helps. Updraft has a rendezvous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap between updates! Lots and lots of projects on the go right now, but I'm happy to get something out for this! Next part should be up faster--and should be exciting for everyone, after this one! As always, thanks SO much for reading and giving this story a chance.

“I think we need to go flying,” Updraft announced one morning.

Frankly, Mistral had been waiting for them to get bored and stretch their wings, but approaching a rather sparse planet it seemed that Updraft had more energy. She wasn’t recharging well into morning, anyway, which seemed to be what she did even as her wingmates took regular shifts, running the ship and purifying energon. Mistral helped with the basic tasks. The first time she’d just sat through maintenance and Contrail had stared hard at her. Naturally, she had stared back. Foreigners on Caminus were used to being stared at.

They hadn’t _said_ anything, but she realized they could decide to boot her out any time. So she helped Airstrike with simple repairs, ran the energon purifier, or watched monitors for Contrail. There were some books and holovids on board, but there really wasn't much else to do on such a little vessel but help.

Even if half of it she did badly. At least being corrected was nothing new.

“You should know how to do all this by now,” Airstrike said, as he twisted a fuel valve back into place. “I onlined knowing the basics.” Mistral had, naturally, bristled.

“I wasn’t going to learn on _Caminus,_ ” she said, her hands on her hips. Still, she filed away every step of Airstrike's tasks. Decepticons wanted useful mechs.

Airstrike grinned. “Rich girl, eh? So was Updraft. She knew a bit more than you about boring worker life, though.”

Mistral wondered what part of Vos Updraft had grown up in. Maybe she hadn’t had time to go to the Academy before the attacks—she seemed young, at least compared to Mistral's own parents.

“Do the rest, I have to mix additives into the energon,” he said. At she'd caught on fast to these things, never having to be shown more than once. She watched him out of the corner of her optic as he took little jars from their shelves.

“It seemed normal to me,” Mistral said. Airstrike shook his head. His optic shutters had a way of drawing in when they were worried, to match his small frown.

“It’s for Updraft,” he said. “She keeps saying she’s fine, but no one sleeps half the cycle away like that. She won’t taste them.”

Mistral snorted. “Speaking as a former kid who had supplements snuck into her fuel, she’ll taste them. And so will we, that’s the communal cache.”

“Exactly,” Airstrike said. His wings twitched, looking resigned. “It won’t hurt us, and we’re all in this together.”

So it wasn’t just for Updraft’s health that they were relieved she wanted to fly. If she was getting better, Mistral wouldn’t have to drink aluminium any more, and Airstrike wouldn’t have to lie. He looked enough like Windblade when he did it that it was clear he hated lying as much as she had.

Contrail had been exuberant. “Great!” he’d said, when Updraft made her decision. “We’ve been twitchy since we touched down.”

Updraft raised a brow. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” she said, though it was clear she was pleased that he had. Contrail just grinned.

“It's no fun without you,” he said, then tapped Mistral's shoulder. “We can take the little bit, too.”

Her wings flicked up and her plating ruffled, as he surely expected by now. Contrail commented on her youth often, and though she guessed it meant she'd been accepted aboard the _Cumulus,_ it never failed to send ripples of annoyance through her. The fact her reactions always made him grin with delight was much worse than being called a _little bit._

It also reminded her of her carrier, and that really did hurt.

“Of course I'll go,” she said. “My thrusters are rusting, cooped up in here.”

Airstrike smiled too. “I think you'll manage,” he said. “But this is a nice planet, good wind. And it'll be good to see that your new parts settled. What time, boss?”

Mistral wasn't sure she was a fan of _scheduled_ flights, but maybe it was for Updraft's benefit. Her biolights still didn't seem to pulse quite right, and she leaned on the work table's edge in front of her, trying not to look like she was tired. Still, her optics were bright, and her wings still managed to look excited. Flying did that to a Seeker, and Mistral could relate.

The planet was cold, and the scraggly plants indicated that it wasn't one that supported much life. Caminus had grown organic matter—vines twined over fences, flowers grown easily in planters outside theatres and in parks. Easier than mining energon. Mistral had never thought much of them, but stepping out onto the cool rock she found herself suddenly homesick.

No, she told herself. Caminus wasn't home, so there was nothing to be sick for. She was on her away to _finding_ home again.

“We'll call this your flight test,” Updraft said to her. Her optics twinkled, and Mistral recognized mischief. That was new, but maybe it meant she really was excited. “The Fleet will want to make sure you're capable.”

Mistral huffed, tipping her chin up. “My parents were from the best trine in the Decepticon army,” she said. “I'm sure I can keep up.”

“Well, there's no command trine now,” Contrail said cheerfully. Behind her, she could hear thrusters onlining, and tried to quell the excitement in her spark. “The best trine in the army is right here.”

Mistral rolled her optics. Doing so, though, she seemed to miss some wordless signal, because in an instant the three mechs had left the ground, transformed, and roared forward into the air. Instantly she rushed into alt mode, falling in place behind Contrail and Airstrike.

She was forced to reconsider Contrail's statement, because it had taken them a second to make her think it might be true.

Mistral was fast, of course, and had a few tickets to her name back on Caminus to prove it. Non-Seekers, she'd found, often didn't want to push their limits. But clearly Updraft was small for a reason, because her top speed hurtled her forward like some great force pushed her along. Contrail and Airstrike weren't nearly as quick, but Thundercracker wouldn't have been able to fault their form as they sped up and followed Updraft's sharp turn. It was clear they'd flown together a long, long time, nothing like the units of Eradicon drones she'd seen defrosted and killed so many times. Precision and unity were practiced and honed. She'd learned that from her sire, and it was clear they'd learned it from someone just as good.

Her comm crackled to life, and Mistral could have sworn it was with laughter. _Not bad!_ Airstrike called back to her. _You've got okay form._ She caught up to him first, the slowest of the group, and he moved just enough for her to join him.

 _Just okay?_ She said. That bruised, despite herself. _I'll have to do better than that._

 _You will,_ Updraft said. She had slowed, to let the rest of them catch up and get in formation. _It's practice and good teaching, that's all. Bank into the next turn slowly, and speed up as you go._

Mistral found herself obeying, and her wings did cut smoother the next maneuver. She should have been more offended, really—she'd hardly ever let Windblade show her more than the basics—but it had taken Updraft all of a few minutes to prove that she was someone worth flying like. A true Seeker, one her parents would have been impressed with.

 _How'd you get that top speed?_ she asked. Updraft slowed, long enough to fall in line with her. Mistral vowed that she'd learn to emulate those clean flying lines perfectly—even if she couldn't do it this first time.

 _Size is part of it, but mostly luck._ Updraft dipped low and Mistral followed, but as the smaller jet got closer and closer to brushed the ground she turned away quickly, so Mistral could follow. She probably couldn't graze the planet with that sort of knife-edge precision, but maybe her parents could have. _There's drawbacks, too. I'm pretty lightweight, not sturdy. I can't afford to crash._

_My parents said no crash was ever pretty._

_And they're right._

Mistral was closest in frame size to Contrail, and soon gravitated to him. For someone who o ften seemed nervous and distracted, he was patient in the air, correcting her turns and moving in just the way he wanted her to emulate.

When the trine began to slow down as a whole, Mistral ached. Endurance was obviously also learned, at least at these speeds, and she was relieved when Airstrike and Contrail touched down near the ship, transforming into a neat landing. Mistral followed, and it was only when she reached the ground that she realized Updraft had gone on, flying steadily towards the horizon. Airstrike met her questioning look with a shrug.

“She's got a place to be,” he said, and it was clear he wasn't all that pleased about it. “We're not invited, but don't worry.”

Mistral stared at him. Contrail was already turning towards the ship, wings hitched up too high, and he threw her a lazy wave.

“Just a hot date,” he said. “A hot, dangerous date.”

“But who knows, I guess,” Airstrike said. He turned back too, and motioned for Mistral to follow. “She hasn't been herself, even before we found you. Now, come on. I want to make sure you didn't pull anything.”

Her curiosity burned, and she had an urge to rush back out and follow Updraft—but she was exhausted, and Updraft was _fast._ Mistral obeyed.

* * *

 

All things considered, Updraft was lucky.

There were maybe four or five active trines still in the Decepticon army—or there had been, when she left her last assignment. There were probably fewer now, maybe even none at all, and Updraft, Contrail and Airstrike wouldn’t be among them. So she had family, and affection, and skilled mechs to fly with. The last thing, she'd been able to make sure of.

She had freedom, because she'd taken it for herself. They could fly where they liked, so long as it wasn’t Autobot space, and no one had made her report to anyone else in at least a million years.

She could still fly, even though her spark pinched and ached these days, her wings heavier. She could keep telling herself it would get better, so the boys wouldn’t worry so much and she could be useful aboard ship again.

They _had_ a ship, one to call their own and take them where they needed. The harder the day, the more time Updraft spent counting her blessings, and with Mistral aboard every day felt longer and pressed harder on her spark.

She got close to the agreed spot, and slowed. Guilt curled in her tank, and silently she apologized to Mistral. It wasn’t her fault her whole life had been war, and by coincidence she had run into them, _her,_ of all the mechs in the galaxy.

Then she apologized to Thundercracker and Skywarp, wherever they might be. If they were still out there at all.

Updraft could make out the ship by now, though the untrained optic would have mistaken it for any other outcropping. The relieved rush in her spark helped temper the guilt, but only a little. Here was someone who knew who she was, really was, and who would understand why it was she was this way. Airstrike worried so much, and Contrail covered his with jokes and nerves.

Maybe it was paranoid of her, but if she cracked _now_ she might not have a trine to keep flying with. They hadn't seen her formative years, after all, or her spot in the Cause. And all she’d have to prove her luck was her life.

She transformed, landed, and vented in shakily. If Mistral wanted to be a Decepticon, so be it. The best she could do was give her enough to keep herself alive the way she had in the Cause.

Royale claimed she hadn’t named her vessel, because she didn’t believe in bad luck. Updraft knew she must use something for it, when it was a medley of new parts and ones taken as “collateral” from her targets. She suspected it changed as regularly as the ship's modifications, and rarely visited the same port under the same name. That was fine by her, as long as their private frequency stayed the same.

The ship itself was cloaked, of course. Ridiculously well—the _Cumulus_ never had and never would blend in so well with just a rock. But Updraft wasn’t just looking for the ship.

Royale’s paint still lived up to her name, deep purple and black and gleaming. She sat on an outcropping and was doing a good job of looking careless, reading a datapad as one foot pushed against the cliff in front of her. Her yellow optics glowed amber, dimmed. But Updraft hadn’t been seeking her out for millennia not to know stiffness when she saw it.

She leaned against the rock, just in view of Royale, and waited. And same as ever, it only took a moment for her to be noticed.

And as always, she waited for Royale to turn her head, and for her optics to tick up from amber to vivid yellow. Royale grinned, and Updraft’s spark blazed bright as she grinned back, and activated her thrusters.

It was so good to love someone, and that would never change. Another thing she could count as lucky.

“It’s only been a few months,” Royale murmured. It was right against her lips, warm and familiar, after she’d pulled Updraft close and arranged her in her lap. “You sure you’re not following me?”

Updraft’s response was a kiss, and she let herself be pulled close, running her fingers over Royale’s helm. No new marks, but their last rendezvous had been remarkably recent. When she pulled back, her spark humming, Royale's optics had narrowed, brows knitted in worry.

“There’s stuff going on with you,” she said, long fingers resting on Updraft’s cheek. “A lot more than last time.”

Updraft shrugged, as if to roll all of it off her shoulders. “Guess so,” she said. “I guess I need some advice, too.”

Royale snorted. “You’re in the wrong place for _that_ ,” she said, flashing her a crooked grin. “No one running weapons and playing neutral is making good life choices.”

Updraft kissed her temple. “You still answer my comms.”

Royale cracked a grin. “I guess that’s one.” She shifted, so Updraft could get up. “Come inside. It’s getting cold.”

It was, but Updraft hardly felt it. Her spark was warm, and she could pretend she felt safe.

* * *

 

“You’re not yourself,” Royale said when they woke up. Updraft had been trying not to think about that, warm and heavy in the way only interface and a nap could bring. Comfortable and feeling decent enough, under Royale's arm, she was enjoying her sleepy fog, the way she always did.

With Royale she wasn’t supposed to have to worry about anything, when the long stretches between their meetings were filled with wondering whether the other had even survived. She sat up, facing her partner so she could stretch her wings back out.

“No one's been themselves for four million years,” she said. “I’m fine. Just not feeling well.”

Royale raised a brow. “I guess if you were contagious I would have been warned.”

Updraft smiled. “Airstrike says there’s no virus that he can detect. I'm fine, really. I just need rest.”

Royale took one of Updraft’s hands in hers, to rest it gently against her cheek. Her frown was as familiar as the rest of her, and Updraft didn’t have the time today to wear her down and convince her all was well. She probably never would—their afternoons together were fleeting.

“Your core temperature is high,” she said. “How long have you been sick?”

“Not long—but I’m not _sick_ ,” Updraft said, more insistently. “No virus, no injury. Please relax.”

Royale snorted, already getting up. “I can’t _relax,_ ever,” she said. “You try finding Swindle now that he pals around with that Onslaught slagger. I haven’t relaxed since he took your symbol.”

Updraft flopped back, and rolled onto her side. “It’s not your job to make sure he’s okay,” she said. “You think I know where my loved ones are?”

“It’s different for you,” Royale said. Under one of her piles, she found what looked like an old scanner, gently shaking it free. “You had way more loved ones. You were lucky.”

It was Updraft’s turn to snort. “Yeah, maybe once. I did a good job turning that around.”

“Mm.” Royale dropped back onto the edge of the berth, but held the scanner in her lap. Her free hand tipped Updraft’s chin up to get a better look. “You know, after all these years, I'm still not inclined to believe that’s true. Didn’t you say you needed advice when you got here?”

“Not about my health,” Updraft said, though dread curled in her tanks when she thought of that too. “But, yeah. Speaking of loved ones, actually.”

Royale's optics were serious, and understanding. Things Updraft often wasn’t sure she deserved. “Who resurfaced, then? They glad to see you?”

Updraft shrugged. “Well, they don’t know who it is who found them. Thundercracker and Skywarp’s sparklet. Mistral.”

For a moment Royale looked confused. Then understanding dawned, and she nodded, slowly. “I never saw her. You said she had really nice plating, I seem to recall.”

Updraft sighed. “Yeah, she was that beautiful silvery white. Still is. I thought she must have died early on.”

“Her parents, then?” Royale asked. “The Eastern Fleet broke up 3 million years ago. Give or take.”

Updraft shrugged. Grief and shame and all the old feelings squeezed her spark, so she focused on Royale's fingertips on her chin, her closeness. The fact that Contrail and Airstrike were just a short flight away, on their safe, sweet little ship.

“Well, that’s the thing,” she said. “They put her on a colony to keep her safe, and now no one knows where they are, much less her. I'd guess dead, but…”

“…It’s not the outcome you want,” Royale said quietly. “I know.”

Updraft shrugged. “She wants to be a Decepticon and find them. I told her I’d get her somewhere she could do that. I'm even ranked high enough to brand her first.”

“Now, that’s a bad idea,” Royale said. Her hand retreated from Updraft’s face. “It’ll do her as much good as anyone else.”

“I don’t actually want to leave her anywhere,” Updraft said. “Much less with _Turmoil,_ and he’s nearest to us. But she’s bent on this route.”

“So keep her around,” Royale said. “By some ridiculous coincidence, _you_ found her, and it sounds to me like you want to keep her safe, so—”

“Of course I want to,” she said, snapping without meaning to. “But, Royale, I can’t tell her who I _am,_ when her parents probably—well, _I_ don't deserve to be around her. She doesn't really know me, I last saw her when she was a baby.”

Royale raised a skeptical brow. Updraft felt her wings droop. “So,” she said after a moment, “She’s pretty sure I’m not keeping her prisoner as long as we’re taking her somewhere Decepticon.”

Royale was quiet, fiddling on some setting on her old tool and not looking up. When she did look, her optics were darker.

“I guess I can’t convince you, then,” she said more quietly. “But if you really want my advice, it’s still not to lie.”

“It’s not lying,” Updraft protested, knowing Royale wouldn’t be having any of it. “It’s just…better. Better she doesn’t know about me, just like everyone else.”

“It’s really not better,” Royale murmured. “You can’t just carry around all that shame. You've had time to fix it.”

“Pretty rich, coming from someone with a dozen alter egos,” Updraft said.

The scanner was cold against her chest, but she didn't shudder. She watched Royale's expressionless face instead, as she took the reading. It was a couple of minutes before she sat back and looked up, her optics a fraction brighter than before.

“Anyway,” Royale said. Her voice was still much too quiet. “Somehow, all your hangups coming back to haunt you aren’t your biggest problem. And that's impessive.”

Fear gripped her at the same time as offense. Royale was always blunt, at least with Updraft herself, but it was rare that she was so raw with what she laid out for Updraft. Maybe it was their relatively short separation this time, making things seem more familiar and easier to talk about.

Updraft reached for Royale's arm. She was always the one in charge, the one the boys looked to, and it was nice sometimes, jut to be the one looked after.

“You’re carrying,” Royale said quietly. “So I guess it’s _our_ biggest problem, because I would have been the one to knock you up.”

Updraft suddenly felt far away from her own frame, her words distant and small. She was suddenly one those distant stars near Cyberton, the latest old spaceport they'd moored in her frame.

“That can’t be,” she said finally. Her voice was almost a whisper. We have permanent grounds.”

“Permanent grounds aren’t 100 percent, though they’re pretty close.” Royale took her hand, turning it over gently in hers. Updraft hardly felt it. “You know that. It must have happened last time.”

The last thing Updraft had worried about, all these long years in the outer rim, had been carriage, or the risk of one. They had happened occasionally on bases, mostly among MTOs or drones who lapsed in their care, but were much rarer in mechs who knew better.

But she herself had been an unfortunate accident. Royale, too. (Swindle, after all, would never have sparked anyone up on purpose, much less a _bounty hunter.)_ So maybe it made sense that they’d ignite an unfortunate accident, too.

“How do we get rid of it?” Updraft asked finally. “It can’t be that far along.”

“A doctor has to,” Royale said. “Decepticons especially will do it no questions asked, I think. And you’d better find one fast, before it’s too late.”

Updraft shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve had enough of doctors.”

Royale squeezed her hand, but her optics were fierce. “There’s no other option. Unless you’re planning on having your spark overcharge and collapse when it’s ready and there’s no frame to put it in.”

Updraft’s shudder was involuntary, and not at the prospect of death. Death was everywhere when you were Cybertronian, and there was very little you could do about it. It was at everything else, the fear and shame and such clear evidence that they’d messed up.

“Can I see the scan?” she asked finally. Wordlessly, Royale turned it towards her. There was her spark pulse, strong and consistent…and another one just below it, much smaller. Wound through hers.

“The boys,” Updraft said quietly, “Are going to _kill_ me.”

Royale chuckled, her hands warm on Updraft’s own. “With worry, maybe. You just need to find a good medic. I have a list of ones for just in case, actually.”

Updraft looked up. “You ever have to visit them?”

“Nope, thank Primus,” Royale said. “Besides, if one of my targets got the drop on me, there wouldn’t be enough left to do anything with anyway.”

“Like Lockdown,” Updraft said more quietly.

Royale stiffened, but didn’t say anything against it. Updraft knew the steps of not being close with your carrier, and the thought still hurting.

“Yeah,” she said, much more quietly. “Like Lockdown.”

There was something Updraft could still hope for, and it was that Mistral wouldn’t end up like the two of them. After all, Mistral had had parents who loved her, and had gone out of their way to keep her safe. And Updraft could at least put her on the right path to finding them.

“Tell me about how you found Mistral,” Royale said, a little more like herself. “And what she’s like. I’m sure she’s something else.”

Updraft smiled. She certainly was that, if she was anything. So she did, as the shadows in the ship grew longer.

 


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues aboard the Decepticon flagship, dysfunctional as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have to apologize profusely for exactly a month between updates! I just have a lot of projects on the go right now and can't always get fic out as quickly as I'd like to! As always, I love reading your comments, and I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! Hopefully you can get to know Sonata and Chandelle a bit better :)

It was acceptable among Decepticons to admit you were scared. The trick was you just didn’t admit it to anyone but yourself. Eradicons and named soldiers were scared most of the time, especially those in proximity to Megatron and under Soundwave's watchful optic.

Sonata was no ordinary Decepticon, so he regularly tried not to even admit that much. And as Decepticons went, he didn’t have much to be afraid of anyway. Harsh words from his sire were the worst he could expect, and he had no reason to fear his carrier’s security. If a ship went down, he was entitled to being the first in a shuttle. If there were no shuttles, he flew well, and it was rare he ended up in a real fight.

Tonight, pulling himself through Soundwave's doorway and falling to his knees, he was sick with terror. And guessed he had more reason to be than anyone else aboard this ship.

(Maybe little Chandelle, little no longer. But she wasn’t the first born, or carried by a favourite, and _she_ had never seen dark energon in action. If she kept her head down, she could slip their sire's notice in a way Sonata could not.)

Laserbeak was there in an instant, and and somehow her comm was a shriek. _Get up. What’s happened?! Are you hurt?_

At first he wondered how she could not _know_ , but even through the feedback of her alarm he remembered she’d been gone all week. No one had been there to meet her and buff out her scratches, and that would have been the first indication to her that something was amiss.

Sonata put his hands on her wings and vented deeply. It helped a little—it had been his first way of staying calm as a sparklet. Laserbeak’s fear hadn’t ebbed, but now she fussed. Her beak nibbled along the plating of his arm, and for his sake she was trying to feel more affection than fear.

_Get up, sit on the berth. Rest. I'll hear it from Soundwave._

Laserbeak couldn’t push him to his feet, but Sonata got there himself, leaning heavily on the berth even as he pulled himself up, to drop down.

The door opened and closed as she left, to zip down the halls and find Soundwave. The quiet in the room became crushing, especially in the bareness his carrier chose to keep his quarters in. It had been alive in their rooms when he’d been a sparklet, wherever they’d happened to be—the multiple bird perches, Rumble's posters, Frenzy's records. Ravage, always close by if not in sight, keeping an optic on everyone until Soundwave got back for the evening

One by one, Sonata's family had grown smaller, their quarters quieter. By the day Ravage never came home, Sonata had been close to upgrade, not allowed to mourn visibly. So he'd learned to push it down, just like everyone else. Just like when he felt what others were experiencing, and had to pretend that it didn’t burrow into his head and make him ache.

Soundwave had to work even harder to keep his mind clear, but he had had longer to deal with it (Sonata, thank Primus, had not inherited hearing of quite that intensity). And he bottled it all up even _more,_ throwing away what the dead cassettes left behind until he had only a console and clean, sterile space. It seemed only to open up the room to bad memories.

Before the war, Sonata would not have been called young. It was only that everyone else at war was so _old_ that it still didn’t feel amiss to shutter his optics and let Laserbeak look after him. Behind their closed door, anyway.

Being strong didn’t suit him, so it really took work.

He had dozed off when Soundwave and Laserbeak returned. The door woke him, and he watched Laserbeak spin circles around his carrier's head, trying to point him towards one of the two chairs in the hab.

Soundwave brushed a gentle finger along Laserbeak's wing as she passed. Then he turned on his console, and set to work.

Even from here, Sonata could feel his distress, and that was alarming. Soundwave generally kept his feelings tightly in check, knowing what he did about himself and Sonata. With a sigh, he stood up.

_Laserbeak is telling you to rest._

Old code, the kind Soundwave had taught him for their private conversations. Laserbeak swooped towards him to land delicately on his shoulder—and pecked his helm, once.

 _I’m telling you_ both _to rest, but at least you somewhat listen._

Soundwave tilted his helm up, away from his screen, and waved his hand. _I am experienced with these feelings. There is work to be done._

Laserbeak had had less patience since Buzzsaw died. He’d been the anxious, flighty one, and his sister had tempered his flaws. Sometimes it seemed like she tried to be both of them at once, and she took off again, to alight on Soundwave again.

 _Your_ _hands are shaking, because you moved too quickly. Megatron’s mistake cannot be fixed by you._

Soundwave paused, and after a moment his hands came down, slowly, to the console. Laserbeak chittered in disgust, and her pecks were no longer gentle. Sonata sighed, low but audible, and Soundwave finally stepped back.

Even as he let the console power down, he was probably still connected wirelessly, his work simply more superficial. Laserbeak would have to be satisfied. Sonata could see the tremor of his fingers as he sat down on the berth, how his visor was too dim.

_Lord Megatron’s output is now largely nonsensical. The drones are frightened, all of them. And the new troops wonder why they have come, as if it is not clear._

Sonata’s visor blinked brighter. “Output” simply meant Megatron’s thoughts and emotions—Sonata was privy only to the latter, but he knew his carrier tried to respect his liege’s mental privacy. He was the only one outside of this room with that privilege, not that anyone knew. Best that empathy (at least, the outlier kind) stayed secret.

Though the natural feeling rarely showed its face in this army, either.

_It's not clear, though. My sire’s insane if he thinks this will be what wins this._

Soundwave looked up more sharply. _He is only misled. Ideally the effect will ebb with time._

It had better, or none of them would be able to stand Megatron’s presence for long. Sonata was better at blocking things out now, but strong, unpleasant personalities still pressed harder. His sire hadn't always been unpleasant, but there was a reason polite distance was ideal this army's officers—such as Starscream.

Or Blitzwing, or Astrotrain, or Turmoil, or Overlord, or Bludgeon, or Tarn. Why, they all wondered, was Sonata so aloof and cold, his carrier’s shadow? The Decepticon officer cadre should have only looked inward.

Soundwave strode across the space between them and sat. Laserbeak settled on Soundwave’s shoulder, leaning in to nuzzle against his neck.

_I will go and see for myself._

Sonata stiffened, but Soundwave gave Laserbeak one slow nod. _Be well. Don’t show yourself._

It wasn’t the first time she’d spied on Megatron, though they avoided it, and Sonata willed himself to relax.

She flew gracefully away, but she had one more comm for them both: _If you’re not both in a full recharge cycle when I’m back, you’re going to have hell to pay._

Soundwave’s vents huffed, the closest he ever came to a sigh. He turned to Sonata—who quickly shook his head.

“You first, carrier,” he said sternly. “You haven’t powered down fully in a week. If I sleep, you’ll work.”

Soundwave stared at him, helm tilted up, and Sonata let a smile ghost on his face. Once he’d been so small, looking up at Soundwave instead of the other way around.

After a moment, his carrier nodded once, and Sonata relaxed. Laserbeak would be happy, and there was so little that pleased her these days.

* * *

 

 

Dreadwing stood outside Starscream’s quarters all night.

There were no orders for him to do anything else yet, no rooms yet assigned. In this dark energon twilight world, those things were apparently forgotten.

Perhaps Soundwave had also partaken, on Megatron’s orders, and they’d have no record keeping ever again. Maybe that was what Megatron was subjecting Starscream to as he stood there, ensuring that Chandelle's sleepless night was at least a safe one.

(She was, if he was honest, probably safe without his presence. Starscream’s apartments were isolated, and Megatron was…otherwise engaged. But Dreadwing had nowhere to be, and it made _him_ feel better, so there he stood.)

“I can’t let you in,” Chandelle had said apologetically. “When my carrier's back I'll ask about it, when he's in a good mood, but—”

“That’s alright,” Dreadwing said, not expecting much else. Starscream had hated his presence when Updraft was small, and even more so when the war was in full swing. Still, he had become a bodyguard for another Vosian princess.

“Goodnight,” Chandelle said quietly, letting the door shut behind her. Dreadwing vented heavily, but didn’t slump.

He could feel that Skyquake no longer shared a spark with him—it was the whole reason he was here, to avenge him and fill the ache with that. But he would never know when it was Updraft had left them, and it was something he had had to accept.

But not easily.

This planet's sunrise brought his comm crackling to life. _Carrier’s on his way back, Chandelle told him,_ the nerves coming through even over a frequency. _You'd better get going, or he might be upset._

Dreadwing wasn’t the least bit concerned about facing an unhappy Starscream, and Chandelle knew it. But Chandelle had far fewer allies than Starscream’s first sparklet had, and spent far more time watched by her carrier. Dreadwing would not be the one bearing the brunt of the Air Commander's unhappiness.

So he left, and went towards the stern instead of to the bridge. Megatron’s quarters were in the heart of the ship, and it would be best not to even pass Starscream in the halls. He hadn’t recharged in days, his struts ached, and something in his wings felt pulled tight. In deep space, he had neglected his basic maintenance.

So the medical bay it was.

If Knock Out was in recharge, or primping (both likely, after that briefing), Dreadwing could catch a nap in a medical berth. Powering down deep, even for a couple hours, was the easiest way to forget. If he was awake, he did decent repairs—and did well handling wings.

There were voices from behind the huge doors, so _someone_ was awake in there. The officer's passcode was the same, and Dreadwing was almost disappointed to see that Knock Out was awake. He'd started to look forward to that nap.

Towering over him was Sonata, looking considerably less distressed than earlier. Now he was leaning on one of the medical berths, frowning in determination and his shoulders held stiff.

“I have all his specs right here,” he said to Knock Out, though his optics had fallen on Dreadwing. “You can write a prescription, and he won’t ignore a medical note—”

Knock Out hadn’t seen Dreadwing yet, and barked a laugh. “Please. Soundwave has ignored much more than medical notes when it’s not from your _dear_ sire. There’s no point in me even filling the bottle. And besides,” Knock Out added, waving his hand, “Nothing is sorted, there’s a layer of dust on this whole place, and half of this is probably expired. I’ll need a half dozen Vehicons to sort the storage closets, Primus knows who will spare _those—”_

Sonata sighed. “We have a few field medics left, I think. I’ll approve the detail myself, just write the prescription. He can’t keep going weeks without a full power down.” Now he straightened up, inclining his head politely in Dreadwing's direction. “Good morning, officer.”

Knock Out snorted, turning towards the few tools he had laid out. “You’re too polite, you know. You’ll make mechs unnerved.”

“I’m afraid that’s on them,” Sonata said, shrugging.

Dreadwing remembered when the prince had been a sparklet, a tiny, blue-eyed creature in a sea of gladiators. He’d crawled from table to chair leg to his sire's lap, where he had seemed to listen intently to their meetings with great interest. Sonata had kept his optics that Iacon blue (though they were covered with an optic visor), but he matched heights with Megatron now, a sleek, angled Earth jet with broad shoulders and wings pressed against his back. There were blasters inset in either arm, ones he hadn’t had on the old space station, but they looked little used. Unlike his carrier, he spoke, and his mouth was visible.

Dreadwing smiled, only slightly. The prince was respectful, responsible, and modest—all things Megatron might have been once. He wondered what burned under the surface of a mech born from such two unusual sparks, but he had never had reason to learn. Their interactions were professional and superficial, not ones between friends. Dreadwing didn’t have the energy for _friends,_ and princes were unlikely to keep them.

Still, there were so few Decepticons whose company wasn’t unbearable. So enjoyed what he could get.

“Your Highness,” Dreadwing said, inclining his head towards Sonata. The Decepticon high prince and heir made a face, wingtips flicking in annoyance.

“Just Sonata,” he said, waving his hand. “Or commander, if high command is around. Less gilded.”

Knock Out grinned, leaning on the medical berth. “Hard to call a mech _commander_ when I used to babysit him. Begging your pardon, of course, commander.” When he tilted his head towards Dreadwing, though, any trace of mirth left his face. “Now, what are _you_ bothering me with?”

Dreadwing pretended he wasn’t bring glowered at. “I only wondered if there was a place for me to recharge here,” he said. “And if our new chief medical officer could do some minor repairs. I’m afraid I’ve rather neglected my wings.”

Knock Out's optics narrowed. He was suspicious, and Dreadwing supposed he couldn’t blame him.

“You don’t have a room to sleep in?” he asked. “Or your own repair kit? You should be able to see that I’m quite _busy._ ”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “In yesterday's…excitement I didn’t receive quarters, or a shift schedule.”

Sonata's brows furrowed. “You should have,” he said, before his optics narrowed. “Do you hear that, doctor? If you won’t help me get our communications officer to rest, he’ll continue to be overtaxed, and fail to perform with his usual excellence.”

“And I’m sure the _crown_ _prince_ wouldn't want his position disrupted, would he?” Knock Out asked, more sharply. “Implying our spymaster's weakness, to an inferior?”

Sonata smiled, and stepped aside, so Dreadwing could reach the second berth. “I’m not implying anything. He’s just very tired, which affects anyone. Some mechs hide it better, and need _loyal Decepticons_ to assist them.” He straightened up, turning to Dreadwing. “My apologies, lieutenant. I’ll make sure your quarters and assignments are available to you immediately.”

It seemed that all those mechs who wondered how to get Soundwave to do what they wanted should have just been friendly with his son. Dreadwing hadn’t realized the prince would even access the ship's day-to-day workings, when there was a war to win and he was old enough to fight. Megatron had no patience for such things.

“Thank you,” he said. Knock Out, grumbling, was pulling down pill bottles and a silver liquid vial.

“If I just prescribe these, will you leave?” Knock Out asked, brows narrowed at Sonata.

“Of course,” their prince said calmly. He held out his hand, and Knock Out, sighing, placed the pills in them. “I’ll make sure you’re under the radar about it, too.”

Knock Out nodded. “I’m sure you’re _very busy,_ running the ship and building space bridges and whatever it else it is you do.”

“Thank you for the medicine, Knock Out,” Sonata said, turning to go. “And welcome back, Dreadwing. We’ve been in need of sensible officers.”

Knock Out waited until Sonata was out of audial-shot to start his grumbling again. “Sensible. Hmph! As if there’s no sense left in _me!_ That boy doesn’t know _what_ I’ve done for him…” He glanced at Dreadwing, who was now easing himself onto the berth, and sighed. “I suppose you want me to work even more then?”

Dreadwing raised a brow, but he wasn’t overly irritated. There were worse mechs than Knock Out, history or not.

“We arrived at the same time,” Dreadwing said calmly. “Perhaps the prince meant that both of us were sensible arrivals.”

Knock Out rolled his optics. “Please. You know what he meant. Now, be quick about showing me where it hurts, before I change my mind.”

Grumbling as he was, Knock Out had Dreadwing's sore struts fixed in short order. He even fixed some crossed wires and uneven plating that Dreadwing hadn’t known were there, and had allowed to get uncomfortable. The sort of thing Skyquake would have noticed once, and fixed for him.

“So,” Knock Out said conversationally. “What brings you to this backwater planet? I was ordered to be here, but it seems you volunteered.”

“I did,” Dreadwing said. “I had to, in order to find out what I needed.”

“And what is that?” Knock Out asked, turning away and clearly not expecting an answer.

“Who killed my brother, Skyquake.”

There was a beat of silence, what Dreadwing had expected. Knock Out paused.

“I see,” he said, more quietly. “I wasn’t aware he was on Earth.”

“He was one of the first on Earth,” Dreadwing said. “My brother guarded the early energon mines and was in deep stasis during quiet periods. Now he’s dead, and I’m going to find out who did it.”

“He could live,” Knock Out said. It wasn’t comforting, just a statement. “You were stationed quite a ways out, for some time.”

Dreadwing tapped his chest. “Split spark, doctor. I feel it here.”

Knock Out was silent for a moment. After a moment, he finally turned and nodded, once. “You really must have been one of Lord Megatron’s favourites. I saw Shockwave do things to split-spark twins that make _my_ work look like sparklet’s play.”

Dreadwing wrinkled his nasal ridge, but only a little. It wasn’t recommended to get on a Decepticon doctor's bad side—even ones with a family connection.

“While I am here, I can at least keep an optic on the princess,” he said. “Someone has to in this place.”

Knock Out's lip twitched, but he waved his hand. “The little princess is safer than any of us,” he said. “She’s not old enough to have made any enemies but the usual.”

Dreadwing stretched, and finally stepped gingerly down from the berth. “Still. It pleases me to make sure of it. Starscream’s child does not have it easy.”

A beat of silence from Knock Out, as he had expected. He had wondered if the doctor had been aware of Updraft’s whereabouts, but it seemed that no one was. Maybe Knock Out had hoped the same of Dreadwing.

“No,” Knock Out said finally. “No, she does not. Safe has never meant _comfortable_ , after all.”

Dreadwing’s comm pinged, and he filed away Sonata’s message about quarters and assignments. Chandelle’s name and the words “imperial guard” were among them, to his pleasure. While he figured out which Autobot he needed to take revenge on, he could have one enjoyable duty.

“You’re lucky, in a way,” Knock Out said. Dreadwing looked up abruptly.

“Am I?” he said. “Doctor, it certainly doesn’t feel that way.”

“Well, you are,” Knock Out said. He had turned away again, his back to Dreadwing and the door. “Your spark tells you your brother’s fate. The holes in mine are from not knowing anyone's.”

Breakdown was nowhere in sight, and Dreadwing did not ask. The last time he had seen Knock Out—and every time before that—Breakdown had been close behind, protective and constant. It was pointless to ask where the other sparklets were, because the answer would likely be the same.

“Thank you for the repairs,” Dreadwing said. “Good day, doctor.”

There was no answer, and Dreadwing left.

* * *

 

Starscream returned mid-morning, hours after he’d commed Chandelle. That wasn’t unprecedented, but it meant she spent the morning on edge, with nothing to do and nowhere she could go unattended.

She couldn’t recharge, so she had tried to shower the itch off her plating. It hadn’t worked, but it never did. Her wings still felt like lead on her back, twitching involuntarily, her thrusters itching just where she couldn’t reach and burning too warm.

They had had no doctor for so long, but even if they had, Chandelle would hesitate to go. Starscream standing over her at every physical, raking her and the physician with his optics and trying to speak over her answers was uncomfortable. To have him doing that _now,_ for problems that felt so personal and so tied to her wings. You couldn’t be _Starscream’s_ offspring and so disconcerted by your own Seeker itches and pains that you thought you needed medical attention. She could already hear the disappointment in his voice.

Starscream had found her at the desk, studying her flight tactics book. He’d nodded, once, Chandelle thought he was barely seeing her. His optics were hangover-dull and his wings dipped too low, and Chandelle could not guess where he’d been those extra three hours.

“No flying today, I’m afraid,” he said. “And, hm. I’d like an essay end of week on whatever it is you’re looking at.”

Chandelle could probably write about anything that week, and her carrier wouldn’t even remember giving the assignment. She tried to look a little put out about not having to fly, not relieved.

“Is Lord Megatron…well?” was what she ended up asking. Starscream shrugged.

“Well enough,” he said, and sighed in a way more like himself. “Tomorrow I'm leaving for the South American mines. Stay out of my room and don’t wander the halls by yourself.”

“Of course, carrier,” she said. She’d forgotten about that, but unusually, suddenly looked forward to the prospect. Dreadwing could be welcomed into their main room, and if he had time take her places she wanted to be.

Not that there were many of those.

“I need to recharge,” Starscream said, and turned away. “Goodnight.”

They were well out of the downshift, but of course Chandelle said nothing. When Starscream’s door locked she sighed, and picked at the paint on her thruster until the itch felt a little scratched.

There was nothing to do, and nowhere for her to be. To her surprise, she realized the datapad that had been next to her all this time was on, not locked and shut off as usual. Starscream must have forgotten about it in the commotion of Megatron’s return. And her, itching and miserable, hadn't paid attention.

She moved to shut it down, because it was a security risk, but the title caught her attention:

_REQUEST TO CONSOLIDATE SEEKER FORCES ON EARTH AND THE NEMESIS: BENEFITS OF RE-ENGAGING COMMAND TRINE AND NAMED OFFICERS_

Chandelle stared at it for a long moment. Slowly, she shut the datapad off, though every inch of her wanted to read further. With the way the last night had gone, Starscream would walk back out now and see her reading his reports.

Command trine meant _his_ trine, mechs whose names Chandelle knew but had never met. She’d learned from eavesdropping that Megatron had sent them away after one of Starscream’s failures, to one of the Fleets in deep space. Her carrier, technically, still had control over their movements, but they had probably not been allowed to cycle back to command.

Maybe they didn’t want to. Most people didn’t want to be around Starscream, even the mechs he was supposed to be close to.

He never talked about them, not in comparison to her or any way at all. As far as Starscream was concerned, she’d thought, Skywarp and Thundercracker didn’t exist.

And maybe they didn’t any more, because the fleets had gone dark a million years ago. Chandelle had been tiny then, but Sonata remembered, and Dreadwing had been there. She would have to ask them.

She wondered how many _Seekers_ were alive at all, let alone officers. Chandelle was a rare breed. And Starscream, maybe naively, had pinned a lot of hopes on her.

She opened the medical frequency. _Doctor? This is Princess Chandelle of the Nemesis. I'd like to make an appointment for a physical._

A response returned faster than she’d expected. _Any time you’d like, then._

Well, being a _princess_ occasionally had benefits. Lower officers weren’t allowed to say no to you (or, at least, be caught doing it).

_0900 hours, the morning after next. My carrier will be away, but I’ll be accompanied._

There was a beat of silence before an answer. _Naturally. I'll meet you then._

A little informal, but Chandelle rather liked that. It got so boring to be tiptoed around all the time, especially when it wasn’t a formal situation. Decepticons didn’t seem to know the meaning of _time and place._

Would her carrier access her medical records?

He’d be unhappy enough if she went by herself, but if he wasn’t allowed to learn what was _wrong_ with her, if anything... he might be as upset as he’d be if something _was_ wrong with her.

Either way, she realized, she’d lost, and her spark rolled with discomfort. So she commed Sonata.

_Are you busy?_

It was a few minutes before she got an answer, as she cleared her things from the desk. _Usually, but I have a moment for you. What do you need?_

 _I…_ She paused, because she had never used Sonata to get her something she wanted, or hide from her carrier. I was a frightening kind of exhilarating. _I’ve made an appointment with the chief medical officer, but if you can, I’d like its record to be off my carrier’s radar. He…stresses. And hovers._

Another beat of silence, and Chandelle worried she had asked too much. Then a response.

_It'll be done. Don’t worry any more about it._

The comm closed. Chandelle’s spark eased in relief and guilt, in tandem with each other. She had never _needed_ to hide anything from Starscream, though she’d used to try—and the threats of Soundwave simply pulling up her activities was a strong one. She wasn’t sure if he _would,_ really, because she didn’t know if Soundwave _liked_ her carrier. But every Decepticon knew they were being watched.

She was lucky to have Sonata, and resolved to find something to thank him.

Her wings twitched, sending the urge to scratch right now her backstrut, and two mornings away felt very far indeed.

 


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on Earth is unpredictable, especially for an Autobot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! I appreciate everyone's patience between chapters--life is busy, but I really enjoy getting fic out for people to enjoy. This would be a good chapter to remind everyone that while this does take place in a TFP-centric (albeit IDW-influenced) universe, we're playing fast and loose with canon and a lot of the show's events aren't going to follow any kind of timeline/happen.
> 
> As always, comments are my lifeblood!! If I can't reply my apologies, but I try to! We're hurtling towards some answers, folks.

“Prime!”

Rafael winced at Agent Fowler's volume, and pulled his headphones off. “Optimus? It's for you.”

Ratchet sighed, looking up from the parts he was sorting. It had come through on the comm as well, of course, but Raf enjoyed helping him, and did the jobs he was assigned meticulously. Ratchet hoped to turn over more duties to him as he got older, in fact—he didn't _object_ to acting as communications, exactly, but it would free up some of his time considerably.

And maybe Ratchet just liked having him around, though he tried not to make that too clear.

“Agent Fowler,” Optimus said calmly. He should have been recharging, really, but it seemed that he forwent the rest he needed more and more often. “The Decepticon threat in central Asia is currently being dealt with, and my team--”

“I'm not _talking_ about that,” Fowler snapped. “I've just heard from a base in Montana about an unidentified creature—a big metal one, mind you—taking down a number of equally unidentifiable aircraft!”

“We got that report already,” Raf said. “Two weeks ago. Optimus and Bee didn't find anything.”

Fowler sighed. His brow was furrowed in impatience, as usual, but Optimus stood calm before the screen. Unruffled, as usual.

“Well, you'd better find something now,” Fowler said. “There was a storm the last time, potential to affect our sensors, but it's a clear sky there now. _And_ this time I have video.”

Ratchet managed not to swear, because Rafael had already learned enough inappropriate terms in Neocybex. Honestly, the child learned too quickly for his own good, and Neocybex shouldn't even have been _understandable_ to a human. There were a number of big, dangerous problems that a _creature_ taking down UFOs could be, and he was sure Optimus was already listing the grim possibilities.

Agent Fowler's face disappeared, replaced by a short video clip instead. Too blurry to tell, really (it could be a human bear for all Ratchet could make out) except that it held one jet wing in its massive hand.

“Eradicons,” Optimus said.

“Yep,” said Agent Fowler, reappearing. “Now, I know Decepticons aren't above taking down their own, but you let that Wheeljack brute go free, and I'd guess this mech is bigger than Bulkhead.”

It was fortunate Miko wasn't around to hear that, because she would likely start insisting that that was impossible. It wasn't, but there _weren't_ many mechs still alive bigger than their own bruiser. Ratchet frowned, and Raf's eyes had gone wide with interest.

“You assume they're one of ours,” Optimus said.

“Pretty much what I just said,” Agent Fowler snapped. “They _were_ crushing Decepticon drones, Prime. I have coordinates of their last location, but I need you to make it quick. Only so much damage control is possible.”

Optimus nodded, solemnly. “I will see to it immediately, Agent Fowler. Thank you.”

“You'd better!”

The call closed, and Ratchet sighed, heavily. “So you'll go alone?”

Optimus shook his head. “The others are occupied, and I need a groundbridge now. I cannot wait.”

Ratchet scowled. “If this mech is as big as the humans claim, they are dangerous. And likely not an Autobot.”

“Who could they be?” Raf said, turning his chair.

“That's what I am finding out,” Optimus said. He turned to Ratchet then, solemn as always (though perhaps more than usual in that moment). “I will inform you as soon as I can of the situation.”

Ratchet harrumphed. “You'd better. Rafael?”

The little human beamed, though two big Autobots were frowning down at him. He was excellent now at opening the groundbridge correctly, and always happy to show it. “Coming up. Agent Fowler sent coordinates.”

It roared to life, and Optimus nodded in approval. Then he transformed, engines roaring once before he drove through. Hopefully, towards an ally (or better yet, a false alarm—this base was terribly cramped), and not a Phase Sixer or Killmaster or something equally dangerous. They had enough problems at it was.

When the groundbridge closed, Rafael tilted his head Ratchet's way. “A Decepticon wouldn't really take down their own, would they?”

Ratchet sighed. “You've seen how they operate,” he said. “And many of the ones on Earth aren't even the most dangerous.”

Raf looked impressed at that rather than afraid. But it was probably easy to feel safe in this silo, with big metal protectors to watch over you and your home. “Who could be worse than Megatron? Or Soundwave?”

“Hmph. I'll tell you when you're older.”

“Not if they show up?”

“If they _show up,_ we'll be evacuating you. You'd better hope they don't.”

* * *

 

Agent Fowler's message rang in Optimus's memory, and it made his spark thrum in concern. More than usual, and that in itself was something to worry about.

 _A mech bigger than Bulkhead_ narrowed down the list of candidates considerably, and pretty much all of said candidates would be unfortunate luck. Overlord. Sixshot. Heretech. Most of the DJD. The latter in particular was a horrible thought—was some unfortunate soldier now on the List, awaiting their death on the Decepticon ship? Optimus would ask Ratchet and Rafael to triple-check the silo’s protections, regardless of what he found. Just the idea of a Warrior Elite near those children made him want to double check.

But the mech had been seen fighting Vehicons. Surely the DJD wouldn’t waste time on unnamed drones, save some kind of uprising (the irony would be lost on Megatron), and they operated as a unit. They had been a flier, however. And there the list narrowed more. Optimus let his engine rumble in frustration, speeding up. There were so few of them left that he should have been able to pinpoint an identity.

There were no comms, at least not on Autobot radio. But he was approaching where Agent Fowler’s tracker had set the mech…and the faint sounds of a fight, all too familiar. Optimus braced himself, and transformed.

He had only just crested the dirt hill when a huge aircraft flew over him, their engine roaring and black smoke billowing from their wing. In a second he had tensed, his weapons onlining almost without him thinking about it.

Dark green, almost grey plating, flying protocols, that massive frame—this was likely a Decepticon. And Optimus would have to be ready to call for backup, if his size alone meant anything about his skill.

The mech transformed, and managed to land on his feet. Optimus could now _really_ see his sheer size. Broad shoulders and an immense wingspan. Much taller than Bulkhead, but not wider.

It would have been impressive, were the situation not so dire.

Two Eradicons roared over in alt mode, and the huge mech sprang into action again. One didn’t even get to transform before the mech had grabbed them and thrown them to the ground. The other, the mech didn’t have to reach for. It was an easy shot for Optimus to make, and the drone fell with a horrible crunch between them.

The mech's optics were yellow, but dim. Energon loss. He was staring in disbelief at Optimus, but he had no weapons trained his way. His fists, energon stained, had dropped to his sides. Slowly, he brought one of them up in a wobbly salute, as the other reached up to brush some of the grime from his chest plate. Optimus saw the sigil.

“My apologies, sir,” the mech said hoarsely. “Your message reached me late, out in Milaria.”

“At ease, soldier,” Optimus said, trying to hide his surprise. Relief coursed through him, that this was an Autobot after all. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Mentally he was running through his old rosters—surely he’d remember this mech if they _had_ spoken face to face. He had a number of big, impressive soldiers he could recall, and who had served the Autobot cause faithfully, but he would have known such a flier.

“We haven’t,” the mech said. He straightened up and pulled his huge wings in, apparently in some attempt to look non-threatening. “My name is Windjammer of Lower Vos. I fought with you at Simanzi.”

There had been so many at Simanzi, so many brave mechs—friends—lost, that Optimus could not possibly know them all.

“I am honoured to have served alongside you,” Optimus said. “But, I am surprised I don’t remember such a remarkable mech as you.”

Windjammer shrugged. “I’m not terribly remarkable,” he said. “Just alive.”

Optimus held out his hand. Now that there was some measure of calm, it was clear that Windjammer must be an Autobot. Mild, even shy, not quite making optic contact with Optimus. A little like Bulkhead. “Welcome to Earth, Windjammer.”

The big mech took his hand, and shook with full strength. Optimus held firm, but his plating still ached when he stepped back. Windjammer looked around them then, sighing when his optics rested on the damage. “Sorry about the mess.”

“We will speak more thoroughly about how to operate here later.” Optimus looked him up and down—he was standing, and could probably hold up against far worse damage, but the injuries were clear nonetheless. “First, our medic will see to you as soon as we’re through the groundbridge.”

Now Windjammer looked at him with interest. “Who serves you as medic, Optimus?”

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, and Windjammer's disappointment was clear. “My chief medical officer.”

“Then I'll be getting the best of care, I'm sure.” the big mech said quickly, straightening up. “We should go.”

“I think you were hoping for someone else,” Optimus said gently.

“Of course not, sir, I can’t complain about being treated by—”

“This is not like the great war,” Optimus said. “My team is very small—five mechs, including myself. Formality is most unnecessary.” Optimus couldn’t tell a forged mech from one built, but he knew what mechs used to being ordered around look like. Windjammer looked a little unsettled. “And,” he added, more gently. “I am not offended if you expected another. We're all looking.”

Windjammer stared at him for a moment before speaking again. Optimus supposed he would have to live it to believe it.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Optimus. Thank you for meeting me. I've been…mistaken before, for the other side.”

Optimus did not mention that he himself had assumed it, too. He motioned for Windjammer to follow him, even as he commed Ratchet for the groundbridge. It took a moment before the big mech did so, limping and trying to look like he wasn't.

_One of our own. Prepare the medical bay._

* * *

 

“Wow,” Miko said.

Windjammer looked down in surprise, and Ratchet watched his optics grow wide as he took her in. Out of the corner of his own, anyway, as he repaired the cables within their new arrival's massive leg.

Young mechs and their first human sighting. Always the same the result.

“Wow, wow, _wow!_ ” Miko said again, bouncing on her heels. “You're _huge!_ With wings! No one told me Autobots could fly!”

“Some can,” Ratchet said. “It's not about your _side,_ but the alt mode you had in the first place.”

“Then why don't we have any here?” Miko asked. She threw out her arms. “You all flying? We'd have the _Nemesis_ down in five whole minutes!”

“It's not that easy, Miko,” Arcee said, leaning on the exam table's other side. “We're forged with certain types of alt modes. It's hard on a spark to switch, and besides, I quite like mine.”

“Some of us are built with them,” Windjammer said. Ratchet paused, but only for a second. They were the first words Windjammer had spoken to Miko, and only the second sentence since he'd actually come through a groundbridge. A terribly shy mech, he feared. That would have to change quickly, with three little humans and their endless questions.

Arcee raised a brow. “Most mechs don't talk about whether or not they're built.”

Windjammer shrugged. “We might not be stuck here now if we had done it more. Anyway, it's just a statement. I wasn't constructed cold.”

Ratchet suppressed a sigh, as Miko frowned and Rafael tilted his head at his station. “There are a number of complicated questions,” he said, “that we haven't started bringing up to the young humans. I would appreciate you not making my life harder so quickly.”

It was enough that Optimus had brought a mech _bigger than Bulkhead_ into their base, to snap Ratchet's tools and knock yet more things over. This one apparently also had to be solemn, and _political._ Primus save his spark from young mechs.

“Well,” Miko said. “I dunno what constructed cold _is,_ but however you were built, you're _rad!_ Oh, Bulk is gonna flip out.”

Windjammer's optics went wide in surprise. “Bulk?” he said. “You don't mean Bulkhead?”

“Did you know him?” Jack asked, appearing at the table's edge. Ratchet was _this_ close to kicking them _all_ outside, but he frowned and focused on the wound at hand instead. When had they learned to _scale_ his equipment?

Windjammer stared at Jack, clearly a little alarmed by the presence of all these aliens. Ratchet could hardly blame him.

“I did,” he said finally. “We worked together before the war. I didn't realize he went all the up to working with Optimus.”

“His personal beatdown force!” Miko said, pumping her fist to illustrate the meaning. “Former Wrecker, too. Ooh, were _you_ a Wrecker?”

Windjammer shook his head. “No. Too wild for me.”

Arcee looked at him oddly, as Miko pouted and looked profoundly put out by the information. Windjammer looked rather like he wanted a quiet room to lie down in. Well, it couldn't be provided. On this base, _private time_ was nearly nonexistent. Ratchet could relate—even if he echoed Arcee's surprise.

“I do find that hard to believe,” he said. “Before he retired for the night, Optimus told me you took an Eradicon out of the air with your bare hands. One blow took it apart.”

“What?” Jack said. Miko's face lit right back up, but Windjammer looked away.

“Well, there was a squadron of twenty-four,” he said. “And they did a number on me. Optimus had to take down the last one.”

Ratchet huffed. “Foolish,” he said, “taking on two dozen mechs alone. Even drones, and even for a big lug _your_ size.”

“There's often no choice,” Arcee said. She finally smiled at Windjammer, though he didn't return it. Ratchet suspected he wasn't impolite, just a little overwhelmed. He could hardly blame him. “If that's your usual result in a fight, we're glad to have you. Especially as air support.”

“I'm happy to help,” Windjammer said quietly. He sounded like the absolute opposite of it, but maybe it was better . “Especially if Megatron himself is on this planet.”

“Where Optimus goes, I'm afraid Megatron tends to follow,” Ratchet said. He finally stepped back. “You'll have to go a night with a hole in your leg, soldier. I don't have the equipment here to scan through plating, so tomorrow I'll check its progress before patching.”

Windjammer held out his leg carefully, twisting the ankle slowly left and right. For the first time since he'd arrived, he smiled. “It still feels better than it has in years,” he said. “I don't think I've seen a real doctor since the Forced Flood.”

Miko's optics went wide. “Why not? You should have come earlier!”

Ratchet sighed, Windjammer looked confused, and Arcee beat them both to it. “Medics are easy to kill,” she said. “Besides, Miko, space travel isn't easy. A lot of the remaining outposts lack even what we have here.”

Windjammer opened his mouth, maybe to tell them what exactly he'd lacked out in deep space, when Raf opened the groundbridge, and their last away team stepped back through.

Ratchet had been thinking how pleased Bulkhead would be, how lucky that another old friend of his had appeared on Earth and was likely on their base to stay. What he didn't expect was for Bulkhead to stop dead in front of the groundbright, Bumblebee tilting his head in confusion...

...and for Bulkhead to _roar,_ rushing at Windjammer with all his might. “ _YOU!_ ”

Miko screamed, and Bulkhead must not have even seen her to do something so foolish, so close. Arcee was faster, thank Primus, and in an instant had Jack and Miko in her hands and well out of harm's way.

“Bulkhead--” Windjammer gasped, before they made contact. The crash was enough to break Ratchet's medical berth in half (again!) and Bulkhead's fist made contact, but only with the palm of Windjammer's hand. The big flier's arm shook, but he held him in place.

“ _Bulkhead!_ ” Ratchet roared. It was enough to give them pause. Behind them Rafael was whispering to Bee, and Ratchet turned to them next. “And Rafael, for spark's sake, close that groundbridge!”

The little human hit the button and shut his mouth. Windjammer was struggling against Bulkhead's weight, pushing hard on his fists, and even if he was physically bigger, Bulkhead likely had experience and health on his side.

“Look—at my—sigil,” Windjammer grunted. “Bulkhead, what the hell are you doing?”

“Me?” Bulkhead growled, shoving Windjammer hard to the floor. “What the hell is _your_ problem, showing your face _here?_ When'd you switch sides, kid? When Vos went down? Rodion?”

“Bulkhead, stop!” Ratchet barked, but he wasn't listened. Windjammer growled, pushed—and shoved Bulkhead back, enough to heave himself back up. His optics were too bright now, not good after injuries like that.

“I never _switched!_ ” Windjammer shouted. “I didn't even _join up_ until I had no other choice! I know who you're pissed off at, and it's not me, so cut your slag out!”

“ _What_ is the meaning of this?”

Everyone went still. When Optimus rumbled like that, they were all in trouble, and had better snap to attention while they had the chance. Bulkhead slumped, pulling himself slowly off the floor to face their Prime. Windjammer straightened, wincing at the effort. So Ratchet would be repairing him all over again. Fantastic.

“Optimus,” Windjammer said quietly, like a sparklet caught in trouble. “Bulkhead and I used to work together. He's making assumptions.”

Bulkhead's optics darkened. “If you knew who that mech belonged to, you'd have rethought--”

“Bulkhead, stop this,” Optimus said. He surveyed the damage around them quietly, before stepping firmly between the two big mechs. He might not have started this, but he would always finish it. “Windjammer. Can you explain?”

He shifted uncomfortably, his huge wings pulled back in. The mech made a concentrated effort to look smaller, apparently, and was good at it. “Before the war I worked in the same construction company as Bulkhead. He was my foremech. My sire was one, too.”

There was a surprised hush, and even Ratchet raised his brows. Sparked mechs were rare enough—and rich, which meant there were few left. It was very rare for someone out of caste to get one to term, let alone raise them. Energon, education—upgrades. It was always the last one that did it.

“That's impossible,” Ratchet said. “A construction worker couldn't possibly--”

“What,” Windjammer said, rounding on him. “Raise a sparklet? Support them? I'm a special case, yes, but I'm not the only one.”

“What's a sire?” Miko asked. Bulkhead finally seemed to realize she was here, and his optics went wide, apologetic. She had probably already forgotten she was in danger.

“A sire is a parent,” Optimus said quietly, before Bulkhead could speak. Of course there was more to it than that, but now was not the time. (Jack looked baffled, and Raf was frowning—of course they had never heard of a Cybertronian with parents.) “Windjammer, who was your sire, exactly?”

“Breakdown,” Bulkhead growled. His fists were clenched, and now every Autobot in the room had understanding dawn on them. Of course it had to be Breakdown that would make him this angry.

“Yes,” Windjammer said. He was almost inaudible, and Ratchet dialed up his audials. “Breakdown is my sire, and I haven't seen him since the war broke out. We lost track of each other after Rodion fell. I didn't...I didn't think he was alive. I looked.”

“He was one of Megatron's right-hand mechs,” Bulkhead said. “Him and your carrier both. Been a million years since I ran into them in a fight, though.”

Windjammer's hand rested on a wall, and suddenly looked stricken. His optics blazed almost white and he leaned forward, like getting closer would bring him an answer.

“My carrier?” he asked. “When did you last see them? Where? What fight?”

“Operation: Solar Storm,” Bulkhead said. “Down on that crystal world. Hmph, poor kid. Sounds like you don't know what those two have been up to since you--”

“Bulkhead, that's _enough,_ ” Optimus growled. He spoke in Neocybex, not English, and it was in a voice he didn't use in front of humans. That he made a point not to use. “I am going to get to the bottom of all this, but Windjammer is one of us, and I will not have you making accusations and causing him harm.”

“But, Optimus--”

Their Prime rounded on him, leaning in close, and Bulkhead shut up. When that happened to you, any Autobot knew it was time to stop.

“Am I understood?”

There was a long, silent moment. Ratchet watched Raf frowning in concentration, trying to translate what it was Optimus had just said.

Bulkhead looked away. “Yes, sir.”

Their new recruit was looking at the wall now, his optics still too wide and the slightest tremor in his hand. Ratchet had had enough.

“Optimus, I'll complete his repairs in private,” he said, brisk and distracting. “Come, Windjammer. You can rest in the large berthroom tonight.”

Windjammer stared at him. “Doctor, I'm fine--”

“You are not,” Ratchet said sharply. “You might be worse off than before. Now follow me. Optimus, see that my workstation is repaired.”

Their Prime nodded slowly, and Windjammer looked baffled that Ratchet would speak to him in such a sharp way. Mechs from outside the main forces, who had never met the Prime (and who worked under power tripping officers) were often like that. He'd learn.

Bulkhead held out one hand, and Miko clambered onto it right away. Ratchet could see she was bursting with questions, but continued on his way, motioning for Windjammer to follow.

“I'm going for a drive,” he heard Bulkhead say. Optimus didn't answer, but as Ratchet closed the door he heard a long, familiar sigh, and the roar of engines.

* * *

 

“You really can’t do better than this?”

Airstrike paused in his mixing. He sighed, because Mistral had been successful in her efforts to try his patience. He tapped her lower leg.

“The point is to make you unassuming,” he said. “Grey or black is best. And, no, we don’t have the means right now to make it more appealing.”

Mistral scowled, and pulled her knees up. “Well, I refuse. I’ll be as assuming as I always have been.”

“We just don’t want you to be an easy target,” Airstrike said, more impatiently. “Camien authorities might be looking for you—or worse, we’ll get on a shit list and Autobots will be able to pinpoint you by your pretty plating.”

“Are you already on any shit lists?” Mistral asked. Airstrike grinned.

“I sure hope not,” he said. “I mean, there’s always the possibility, but, you know, don’t worry about it.”

Mistral didn’t have time to ask why she would have to be _worried._ Contrail waltzed through the doorway (Contrail always seemed to strut, or bound, or glide, never _walk_ ), glanced at Airstrike's paint cans, and frowned.

“Is that seriously the best you can do for her?” he said. Mistral beamed, and Contrail winked one optic at her.

“Honestly, yes, unless you have a couple thousand more shanix lying around,” Airstrike said. “No sheen or glitz here right now, so try not to scratch up your paint.”

“You're the smart guy,” Contrail said casually. He put his fingers against Airstrike's helm, tapping casually as he leaned in closer. “You couldn’t at least make it a temporary disguise? Something she could turn on and off?”

Airstrike rolled his optics. “Well, hold on. You’re assuming I can work some kind of weird magic with magnets, and—shouldn’t you be piloting the ship?”

Contrail grinned. “Nah, I slept late. The boss has been on it all day. In fact, I’m not even allowed up there till I need to land us, so Primus only knows what coordinates she punched in.”

Airstrike frowned, and Mistral’s wings flicked up in surprise. “We don’t even know where we’re _going?_ ” she asked. “I thought it was a Decepticon base.”

“It might be,” Contrail said. Airstrike was frowning harder now, but Contrail simply reached out and pinched his cheek. Mistral had to be quick about stifling her laugh. “It might be a port moon, or something similar. It might be the next place Royale went, but we’ll just have to trust her.”

“Who’s _Royale?_ ” Mistral asked. Contrail only grinned, and she knew she probably wouldn’t get an answer. She'd ask Airstrike again when he wasn't distracted.

“Honestly, I like you guys, I do,” she said after a moment. “And you fly beautifully. But there are secrets around here, and I don’t like it.”

Contrail's smile slipped off. “Yeah, neither do we,” he said. “But we trust her. You will, too.”

Mistral supposed she already did, or she wouldn’t have spent this long behaving relatively well on this tiny ship. Contrail and Airstrike weren't bad company...and sometimes she simply didn't see Updraft enough to figure out how well she knew her.

Of course when she thought of how distant Updraft was, she appeared in the doorway, leaning in to see what they were all clustered around. Like Contrail before here, she made a face.

“Don't say anything,” Airstrike growled. “Yes, it's the best I can do. No, I don't have the means right now to turn it on and off.”

“At least skew closer to black,” Updraft said. “Otherwise she'll look dead.”

Airstrike huffed, but returned to his paint cans. Mistral figured Updraft would know, because despite their rudimentary washrack (a corner off of Airstrike's workshop), and her exhaustion, she obviously tried to keep herself tidy.

Mistral frowned. “I don't want to lose my colour at all.”

Updraft smiled at her, at least looking sympathetic. “When we stop somewhere, you can take it off. Airstrike, can you put in a middle coat, maybe? So you don't damage the original finish?”

Airstrike shrugged, wings twitching. “I...guess? Is it really that big a deal to lose your paint job?”

Contrail grinned. “She definitely was a Vosian once, like that.”

Mistral scowled, tipping her chin up as proudly as she could manage. “I've been this colour all my life. It's part of me. Unique.”

“Decepticons don't value uniqueness,” Updraft said. Then she turned, back towards the cockpit. “Contrail, it's time to land. Be careful—weather down there's bad.”

Contrail frowned. “How bad? Wind storm? Hail?”

“Snow,” Updraft said. “I need to see someone, urgently. You're all going to stay with the ship.”

“But--”

“I mean it, Contrail,” she said, more sternly. Mistral had been almost forgetting she was an officer. “It's freezing out there, and we shouldn't travel unnecessarily. And Mistral--”

“Yeah?” she said. Her brow had furrowed, frown deepening. “This isn't the Decepticon base you promised me.”

“And doesn't seem like _necessary travel,_ ” Airstrike said, more quietly. Updraft sighed.

“Please indulge me,” she said. “Just once more, boys. And, Mistral, I was going to say that our next stop will probably be Decepticon in nature. If you like what you see, you can leave us then.”

“Aww,” Contrail said. He winked at Mistral, flicking his wings up higher on his back. “Boss, I'm just starting to like having a passenger. Was hoping we could keep her.”

Updraft's mouth twitched, but she didn't smile outright. It was typical for Contrail to interrupt anything someone was trying to say that was longer than ten words. “Well, that's up to Mistral. _Anyway—_ if you'd like, I can brand you before we get there. I'm qualified to do so, and we have two named witnesses to sign.”

Right away, Mistral straightened up. “Really?” she said. “You'll brand me already?”

“A little earlier than I planned,” Updraft said. “But, yeah. I will. You'll need to see high command eventually to confirm it, but I can't promise when that will happen for you.”

“Doesn't matter,” Mistral said. Already her optics flashed brighter with anticipation—the future looked a good bit brighter, too. “That'll mean I can fight.”

“Landing, Contrail,” Updraft said, tilting her head towards the cockpit. The green mech grinned, tapped Airstrike's cheek once, and bounced back to his place

“Where are we landing then, boss?” he asked. Airstrike returned to his paint can, carefully mixing in something darker.

Updraft sounded relaxed, more so than before her last weird little rendezvous. Surely Mistral could follow her out and check in on things, and she wouldn't know. “A pretty boring outpost. Messatine.”

 


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Seekers visit the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, very exciting update today! Some answers are coming, but even more questions I think ;D Sorry for a bit of a delay on this one, I ended up writing a whole huge thing this month (Soar Onward, which I'm also posting). I did just start a full-time job, which also makes writing a little harder, but I'll do my best to keep going on this in a fairly scheduled way! I have been really excited about this update, and am very excited about what's to come.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and comments are, as always, my lifeblood! Enjoy!!

Well, Chandelle told herself. The doctor's name isn’t _Flatline_ this time.

That chief medical officer had built her frame, and overseen her transfers, but he couldn’t have done the greatest job if she was this uncomfortable. Knock Out, bustling in the back room, had simply called her in, and Dreadwing had agreed to wait outside the door for her privacy. She was doing her very best not to let her wings twitch, or twist around to scratch her plating, but she was nervous and was good at falling into old habits.

“Well, princess,” Knock Out said, reappearing in the doorway. “Let’s check you over, shall we? I don’t seem to have a complete chart from you since your upgrade. Or before it.”

Chandelle made sure not to look at her knees, and be the royalty she was instead. “Flatline was killed not long before we got to Earth.”

Knock Out huffed, laying out his scanners. “Well, he was alive to upgrade you, but it doesn’t excuse your medical history being this spotty. I run a tighter lab than _that,_ I can assure you.”

Chandelle had kept her audial out for gossip, but she hadn’t heard much about their new physician. Dreadwing said they’d known each other, but he was quieter than usual, deflecting her questions. Perhaps orders kept him from talking? There were so many things aboard this ship that she had to find the answers to herself.

“When was your last full physical?” Knock Out asked her. Chandelle tried to swallow her nerves—he seemed amiable enough, but that in itself was sometimes dangerous. Black Shadow was amiable. Tarn was amiable (and overly interested in her and Sonata, waxing on about “the Cause's great future” and guaranteeing Chandelle would not go near him willingly). Actions, not tone, could be trusted on this ship. She had learned that from Starscream.

“Before my upgrade, probably,” Chandelle said, shifting uncomfortably. Under her chassis was itching now, like a warning, and she must not scratch. “But I'm worried Flatline could have done a better job. I’ve had problems since.”

Knock Out picked up his first scanner, but he had tensed.

“Well, that won’t do for one of Megatron’s offspring,” he said. “He expects you to be in top condition, after all. Have you been in the field yet, Chandelle?”

“No,” she said. “My flying's not good yet. Carrier says I’m not ready.”

“Hmm,” Knock Out said. That one sound told quite a bit. A number of people felt similarly about Starscream. “I assumed it would be up to Lord Megatron when you would get to be of use.”

Chandelle shrugged. “It’s easy to go unnoticed,” she said. “Especially when Starscream’s not in Lord Megatron’s favour.”

Knock Out made a noise close to a laugh. “So, all the time? Then you’ll have to prove your worth yourself, princess. I'll check your systems now.”

He seemed capable enough as he went through his checks, and gentle, at least with her finish. It made sense, when his was impeccable and Starscream inspected hers regularly.

“What sort of problems are you having?” Knock Out asked. “A cursory scan is normal, and if you were in spark duress or not processing your energon—well, we would all know.”

Chandelle was quiet a moment, playing with her fingers in her lap, until Knock Out said, more firmly, “I won't go telling your carrier. I don’t want to deal with him following me around and demanding I cure you.”

“I just…” Chandelle said, and paused again. “I just _itch._ They said that upgrades take time to get used to, but it’s been a few years now and nothing is better.” Saying it out loud sent a tremor through her wings, but she couldn’t quell it, and hated them. “I feel like I want to just—just take this plating off. I can’t be sitting right in it.”

Knock Out stared at her. A horrible fear rose in her spark, that this had been a mistake and he would go straight to Megatron with her secret. Immunodeficient Vehicons were occasionally culled, as were ones with injuries too grievous to treat. It happened far less when a real doctor was aboard, but could it be tolerated in a mech of Megatron’s own spark and coding?

“How do you feel about your wings?” Knock Out asked. He was looking at her hard, like he could find his answers with brighter optics.

Chandelle shrugged. “They’re fine. They still catch on doorways and stuff. Just wings.”

“Do you like flying?” Knock Out asked her. “Your thrusters? Are they too warm?”

She shook her head. “I’m not good at flying,” she said, more quietly. “I’m trying, but I’m—wobbly. I feel heavy in the air. Sometimes my thrusters burn, but Carrier says I don’t heat them enough…”

Knock Out stepped closer to her. No one ever looked at her that interested, unless they had never been stationed near the royal sparklets. Knock Out had been Sonata’s doctor for centuries, so it couldn’t be that.

“Did you choose your alt mode?” Knock Out said. It was to her surprise that he sounded more gentle. Genuine?

Chandelle shrugged, and knew her wings twitched again. “I got to help decide what make of jet I'd be. There’s a lot of variety on this planet…”

“But did you _choose_ to be a jet?” Knock Out asked, more quietly. “There are plenty of forms that can be suited as a warframe, or modified as such.”

Chandelle stared at him. He had known Starscream a long time, she knew that much—how did he not know already what he was like?

“I’m a _Seeker,_ ” she said. “The Air Commander’s daughter. I was always going to be a jet—and a tall one, at that. My sire's spark is big.”

Knock Out stared at her, but it only took a moment for understanding to dawn. His optics flashed, and he shook his head, optics narrowed as he paced around the table.

“Sparklets have a unique right,” he said. “To _choose_ , from almost anywhere in the Taxonomy. You're not Vosian, really, and even under your sire there are options that would please him.”

“Not for me,” Chandelle snorted. “Doctor, I just want _this_ frame to feel right. There’s no other option.”

Knock Out nodded slowly. He wasn’t looking at her now, staring instead at the newly organized shelves of supplements and medications. Finally, he sighed.

“Your wings feel like lead,” he said quietly. “The joints creak and it all feels out of place, either too hot or too cold. You want to make it stop, but it feels like stepping out of it completely is the only way. Doesn’t it?”

It took her a moment of staring at him for her to find her words, and give a proper answer.

“So you know what’s wrong with me,” Chandelle said finally. What was he _talking_ about, exactly? “Can you fix it?”

He strode towards the cupboard, rummaging for a moment before appearing with a couple of pill bottles. He filled one from the other, and Chandelle watched the little round tablets pour in. The bigger container was put back, and he brought down a second supplement.

“I'm writing you a large prescription, so you can minimize refills,” he said. “I know your carrier will pry—just take care with your dose.”

“Okay,” Chandelle said. That she was grateful for, but she didn’t recognize the names of the medicines. “What are you putting in me, then?”

“This is a rather powerful relaxant,” Knock Out said. “It’s meant for tricking your frame while a new part integrates, but just cut the pills in half for your dose. The supplement is zinc, and it’ll protect your more sensitive components.”

“No repairs on me, then?” Chandelle said nervously. “I guess I expected…refits, or something. Some tightening up.”

Knock Out shook his head. “Your scans come back just fine,” he said. “You need to keep that frame, and this will make flying easier. Let me know if the itch doesn’t improve.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Chandelle asked, panic rising in her spark. “I can’t be _sick._ Not here.”

“Nothing is _wrong,_ ” Knock Out said, shifting uncomfortably, and proving something was. “And of course it’s not my place to speak of paint or…never mind. Apologies, princess. These will help.”

Chandelle smiled, in spite of herself. “The grey wasn’t my first choice, but it’s versatile,” she said. “Maybe when I have my own command I’ll repaint.”

Knock Out actually smiled at her. “My specialty, princess. And you _are_ taking fine care of what you’ve been given, I will say.”

“Thanks. So, you’re sure this will work?” she asked. “Half a pill, once a day?”

“It’ll help,” Knock Out said. “I know from experience. Now, you have my comm, and I can keep this discreet. When your carrier comes back he’ll likely request a physical, at which I’ll find you in perfect health. Is that acceptable?”

So he had known Starscream a long time. It didn’t explain why he would go out of his way to make sure she was well, or why he’d dance around her carrier to avoid his moods.

He must have noticed an expression on her face, and chuckled. (She ought to be more careful.)

“Dear princess, I don’t want to deal with his apoplexy any more than you do,” Knock Out said. “And as I’ve said, I know these pills work from experience.” He reached out, almost as if to pat her shoulder, but pulled his hand back before contact.

“Well, thank you,” Chandelle said, standing up. She tried to look the part, the cool, collected Seeker heir. It wasn’t easy, not today. “I’ll let you know if they affect me the wrong way.”

“Of course,” Knock Out said. He stepped back and tilted his head respectfully. “Have a pleasant morning, Chandelle.”

Dreadwing was still waiting for her when she left, her bottles safely stowed in a box. He glanced at it, and his optics flashed worry.

“You’re well, little one?” he asked, putting one huge hand over hers. Chandelle nodded, clutching the bag closer.

“I’m just fine,” she said. “These will make me better. And—don’t tell Starscream. I don’t want to deal with him.”

“It will be a dark day when I’m telling _Starscream_ your business,” Dreadwing said, engines rumbling. “I will escort you home. To rest.”

“Of course.”

So he did. Chandelle tried not to think too hard about her powerful pills, and how she still wasn’t certain what, exactly, was being treated with her. Knock Out had clearly not wanted to tell her, and that made her nervous.

These had better work.

* * *

 

“So _what’s_ she doing?” Mistral asked, again.

Again, Airstrike's patience was being tested. Mistral was getting good at wearing him down fast, but had found he was never annoyed for long. Updraft was harder to ruffle, and Contrail impossible.

“I’m gonna guess that she’s seeing someone about supplies,” Airstrike said. “This is a mining outpost, or it was. No insignia, so there might be willing neutrals.”

“If there’s not?” Mistral ventured.

Airstrike's optics flickered. In the reflection off the snow, they looked darker than yellow, and Mistral still wasn’t quite sure why. She had asked, and Contrail had looked at her like she was stupid and the subject had been dropped.

“Well, she’s a good shot,” he said. He grinned, ducking through the doorway to his quarters. “I promise we’ve been through worse.”

“You’re not worried about her?” Mistral asked. Of course he had to be, because on this little ship he worried all the time. Updraft seemed to leave him with no shortage of concerns.

His face fell. “Of course I am. But she knows what she’s doing, Mistral. We have to trust her.”

Mistral snorted. “ _You_ might.”

“I left you some games,” Contrail said as he passed. “In the blue datapads on your berth.” He flicked his wings up, running one finger along the trailing edge of one of Airstrike’s. The bigger Seeker’s optics flashed amber, instantly embarrassed as he stepped behind the doorway.

“Not in front of her,” he said quickly, as if Mistral was going to say anything She only grinned.

“Thanks,” she said, enjoying Airstrike thoroughly embarrassed look. “Maybe I’ll take a nap first, though.”

“Good idea,” Contrail said cheerfully. He started shutting the door to their quarters (the automatics on the two small hab suites didn’t work, and you had to kind of pull on the mechanism). “Naps are always a good idea, kid. Later!”

She waited a few minutes before she went into the main room. Airstrike’s dull gray mix still sat in its can, but thanks be to Primus he hadn’t painted her yet.

No matter, of course. A few minutes later she stepped carefully down from the cargo door, into the cold wet of the snow. Updraft had picked the one planet Mistral could conceal herself on, and it was too bad she couldn’t thank her.

The snow was frozen beneath her feet, besides the newest layer. There were no steps that she could see, but she only had to walk around one cliff before the gray smudge of a building was in sight, just beyond the next hill.

Mistral shivered, so she took off. Warm thrusters would help, but she would have to fly slowly. She had already been shot down once this trip, and Messatine had a stronger gravity pull than Caminus. If she was caught, she’d fall hard.

But she wouldn’t have to sneak that far. Gathering intel was all she was doing, after all, and she probably wouldn’t even see Updraft. All she’d have to see was where she had gone, and what this place was. All before Contrail and Airstrike were done fragging the bolts off each other.

Heading towards that grey old building, wingtip almost brushing a canyon wall, she flew.

* * *

 

Uppercut told herself she was fine where she was.

Delphi might be an outpost, quiet and cold and wet, but it was _her_ outpost, with few enough miners and guards that she knew their names and their charts. It wasn’t _safe,_ exactly, but nowhere in this war was safe. There was little in the way of bureaucracy or serious moral quandary that Uppercut had to struggle with.

Besides the usual, of course. And she had brought those on herself.

Her comm pinged, and she straightened up. Not Pharma, thank Primus—he was on his recharge cycle. She almost didn't recognize it, and that flash of worry made her afraid. Fear was easy enough, though. Probably one of the simplest feelings there was.

Ambulon and First Aid were arguing in the operating theatre. Pharma wasn’t awake to scold them, and it would be a waste of Uppercut’s time to try.

“High Command said I could resubmit at a later date, so—“

“A later date doesn’t mean _now!_ Look, First Aid, I know you’re upset, but there’s a _reason_ for serious demotions like this. And you know I’m not in a position to ignore _or_ fix this. Besides, comms are still cut.”

“You _and_ Pharma, you're both so—“

Uppercut kept walking. If you asked her (and no one would), First Aid deserved better, that Pharma and Rung had been too quick to dismiss him. That obsessiveness and those quirks made for a doctor with attention to detail, and quick thinking. Pharma thought he knew better than anyone else, and she figured that nothing and no one in his life had told him otherwise.

She couldn’t tell First Aid this. He didn’t seem to like her very much, since he made such an effort to avoid her outside of shared shifts. Maybe it was the optics—there was always that stigma. But he didn’t avoid Ambulon, and he had _defected_ to their side. It was a secret she’d dig at as soon as hers was safe.

They were due to get through several surgeries, and Uppercut had been due for her first off shift in awhile. Again: three pings to her comm, on the frequency she was supposed to have deleted. Evenly spaced, familiar, patient.

Uppercut continued down to the old clinic, the one no one ever used. She'd been careful to ensure that when the cameras broke there one day, they simply hadn't been fixed, in case this exact situation came to pass. _If_ it came to pass—and now it had. The rush of dread warred with the new little thrill, of knowing who was waiting for her.

As she walked, she sent exact, careful coordinates. _This room, this door, this direction. Come._

She wondered idly how easy it would be to cloak a personal signal. Surely it had been done before, and was just out of her area of expertise. If someone had found this one, and traced it to her and this base…

…No, that was anxiety talking. Someone had to be important to be tricked like that, and Uppercut wasn’t that. Maybe she had been _once_ , but there was no more Senate to be a sparkologist to. Nowhere to online a sparklet, and no one to have them.

She locked the door to the old office behind her—then unlocked it, to do it again and make sure. She laid out the emergency kit she kept with her on the table, unfastening it and pulling out a sterilizing cloth. If this was a worst-case scenario, she would need a safe space to work.

When she had been young, she and Kickstart had had a special knock. If their parents were worried about the rent, or a tainted energon supply, _or_ the upgrade bills, they’d use it on each other’s rooms to know when one needed the other. When Kickstart had become Windjammer, they’d still used their code, and when Updraft had moved in, Uppercut had taught her: two quick, soft raps, and one dull _thump._

She had heard it once on her medical bay door, long ago, but that had been at K'th Kinsere before the evac. Her hands had been slick with energon, some poor mech's fuel pump in her hand as she had answered. She had learned a lot less than she'd wanted to that meeting, but it had saved a life.

Now Uppercut’s shaking hand was clean, her plating fairly cared for. The door slid open, and in with the cold blew Updraft.

“It really started storming when I came around the side,” her sister said, shivering from her feet to her wingtips. An impressive cloud billowed in behind her, but Uppercut was sluggish in closing the door. Her hand hovered over the button, her optics wide and raking in each detail.

More black than red, the gold accents long painted over. A worrying dullness to her red optics, a sign of low energy. But her face and helm were always the same, her voice the same as the day she’d come to Rodion.

“The door, Cutter! Someone might see.”

Uppercut finally hit the button, but by then the snow had blown itself a bank against some storage cabinets. The roaring wind stopped, leaving only the two of them.

Just before the war, when she’d come home with those sigils, they had been all Uppercut could see. They were still there, one on each wing, but she was too relieved to notice them beyond a part of Updraft, still alive and here and before her.

Updraft opened her mouth, but Uppercut was faster. She reached out and pulled her close, hugging her close enough to make her squeak and pressing her face into her neck.

“Stupid,” she said in Vosian. The language felt far away. “You don’t look like you’re dying, so why are you _here?_ You’ll get caught.”

It took a moment for Updraft to respond, but a moment was all Uppercut needed. Her scan completed, but it was her own spark that thrummed with alarm. It had been so long since she had felt that kind of sparkpulse, but her old nursing staff would have wanted to see the full scan.

“Why else?” Updraft asked. The moment Uppercut loosened her grip she pulled back—leaving one slim hand on her wrist. “I needed to see my doctor.”

“I’m already compiling a scan,” Uppercut said. Worst case scenarios were already roaring through her processor, with what she felt and _knew_ , with Updraft appearing alone in this sector of space. “How did—how did you find me?”

Updraft shrugged. “Contrail pointed you out in a record,” she said. “When we were mapping out contingencies. I just hoped you were still here.”

“There’s not many places I can go,” she said. “This _was_ temporary, but Ph—our lead doctor can’t reach Kimia. Or anyone. We’re trying to do research in the meantime, or we're a rest spot for other exiles.”

She paused, as her scan compiled. Right before the war started, she had built in the necessary scanners and tools a sparkologist normally carried around. She certainly had the room, and looking back she knew it had been a desperate cling to normalcy. For when the Clampdown ended, and she could help more rich people extract their newsparks.

Apparently she had held onto it for a good reason, because one had just blown in.

“I hope you knew you were carrying,” Uppercut said quietly.

Her sister looked away, the same guilty knowing as when she’d come home from joining up. She wondered if their sire had been as furious as Uppercut felt now.

“Of course,” she said. “That’s why I need you.”

“Is it Contrail's or Airstrike’s?” Uppercut asked, turning away. It would take another sift through the data to determine the spark's age. “Or someone else?”

“Royale,” Updraft said, and her voice was disbelieving. As if it were the _obvious_ answer, and not one that made Uppercut stare at her goggle-eyed.

“You still—are you serious?” Uppercut breathed. When Updraft nodded, she nearly suppressed a growl, looking hard at the data she’d obtained. “Sit up on the table, I need a proper listen. You _still_ see her? Are you traveling together?”

“I’m traveling with my trine, like always,” Updraft said. Her voice had risen slightly, annoyed. Clearly, Uppercut should have been in the loop after _millions_ of years. “I only see Royale long enough to—”

“Frag her?” Uppercut said. She leaned her helm forward, frowning as she pressed her audial against Updraft’s chest. “Clearly. She's a Decepticon?”

“Unaffiliated,” Updraft said, more quietly. “Uppercut, I’m sorry. I've missed you so much, I—”

“Don’t,” Uppercut snapped. Her spark couldn’t even feel warm as she listened to those two humming pulses, one so much smaller than the other. “Don’t, Draft. I have a job to do right now.”

Her sister went silent, but her spark sure didn’t. It had always pulsed quick and bright, like Updraft herself, and its presence had made itself familiar again in an instant. You could tell a person by their sparkpulse, of course. Ambulon's was nervous, a bit erratic, Pharma’s was steady and neat. First Aid's was gentle and smooth, and her favourite of the mechs in Delphi.

(Of course you couldn’t voice those thoughts out loud, even as a sparkologist. People would think she was crazy.)

She couldn’t be happy about how easily she and her scanners caught this newspark's hum. At Iacon Memorial, in her old practice, it would have been the ideal buzz, right on schedule. Updraft watched her, lips a thin line as Uppercut straightened up.

“I can’t terminate,” she said. Predictably, Updraft's optics went wide in horror.

“You have to,” Updraft said. Her hands had gone to her chest, the unconscious movement if every carrier. “Cutter, it can’t be that far along. We can’t build a frame. It can’t _live_ , not like this. I don’t—”

“Want it?” Uppercut said. “I know, but it’s not up to me. I can’t terminate now without taking you with it.”

“But—”

“Updraft,” Uppercut said more firmly. She rested one big hand on Updraft’s small shoulder, unable to do anything but imagine that second spark pulsing. “It’s extremely unlikely to self-terminate at this stage, and that would be dangerous for you. It has to come to term and be extracted.”

Updraft didn’t speak, her hand like a vice on Uppercut’s wrist. Her optics were fire-bright, and it was almost a full minute before she spoke again.

“What do I do?”

Uppercut’s answer was stupid and impulsive. But she challenged anyone else to come up with a better one when their sister was in trouble, and they hadn’t seen her for so many long years.

“Stay,” she said, reaching to squeeze Updraft’s hand. “Stay with me. Take off the sigils and Pharma will let me help you.”

Updraft stared at her. “Are you stupid?” she said.

“About as stupid as interfacing with an expired ground wire,” Uppercut said flatly. Updraft scowled.

“I didn’t notice,” she said. “And I can’t—I can’t _stay,_ Cutter. The trine, our ship...I can’t do that.”

Uppercut’s optics flashed. “Then you’re going to die. Your spark will collapse, or one of _your_ doctors—if I can even call them that—will let it, if not kill you outright!”

Updraft stared at her, brow furrowed and her optics defiant. Like she was facing Megatron, and not the only person left who could _help._

When she didn’t have an answer right away, Uppercut huffed. She turned away, but it wasn’t in disgust. Did Updraft _really_ want to make her the last of their family that badly? It took Uppercut a moment to shutter away to coolant threatening to blur her gaze, sending warnings through her system. One couldn’t afford to waste energon like that these days.

“Fine,” Uppercut said, turning around. At her full height, she towered over her Seeker sister. “You just said you couldn’t leave your trine. You’re going to do that if you die, and they'll know it’s because—”

“They don’t know,” Updraft said.

“You didn’t _tell_ them?”

Uppercut had significantly more to say about that, except she didn’t have the chance to do so. In the snowbank melting behind them, plating shifted. Her lines ran cold.

Updraft, still the officer, pricked up straight. Uppercut scanned, and—yes, there was a third signature. How had she not _noticed_ that?

They couldn’t dare shoot, or the whole outpost would know. But it was unlikely they could overpower Uppercut, unless a Warrior Elite had been on Updraft’s thrusters.

Maybe one had been, Uppercut realized with a shudder. The DJD hadn’t been active in their home base in centuries, but if they knew a Decepticon was here rubbing shoulders...

White plating flashed, and Updraft’s wings dipped. She sighed, her biolights flickering in an emotion Uppercut couldn’t work out.

“Mistral, come out,” she said. “I told you to stay with the boys.”

Uppercut hadn’t forgotten that name, not in four million years. When its owner stepped out, she actually took a step back.

Of course in upgrade Mistral was tall and sleek, a standard Vosian. Her optics were blazing, staring at Uppercut like she didn’t know whether to make an escape or try to wring her neck. What gave her away was the multicoloured shine on her white plating, a colour she hadn’t seen before or since. And because of the snow, and this place's whitewashed walls, she had gone unnoticed. For the first time in her life, probably.

“Who is this?” Mistral asked, gaze snapping to Updraft. A young voice, with an accent Uppercut didn’t know. Not Vosian, even if she spoke it now. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing a doctor,” Updraft said. She folded her arms, and raised herself to the whole of her diminutive height. “This is not a safe planet to follow me on. As you can see, it’s Autobot-held.”

“Is that why you don’t talk to other forces?” Mistral said, her optics blazing. “Because you’re a traitor?”

“If you were listening,” Updraft said, “You would know this is my _sister,_ before she’s an Autobot. Family is the whole reason you’re out here.”

Mistral looked between them, and Uppercut could hardly blame her for looking utterly disbelieving.

“You are so full _of shit_ ,” Mistral said finally. “All lies. Traitor bullshit lies. Your trine is _so worried_ about you and you couldn’t even _tell_ them? You told an _Autobot_ first?”

“Mistral of Iacon,” Uppercut said, wishing she didn’t have to make the kid’s optics wide with fear. “There’s no insignia on you. What are you doing here?”

Mistral stared. Updraft looked distinctly distressed, but didn’t open her mouth.

“How do you know my full name?” she asked, much more quietly.

“I delivered you,” Uppercut said gently. “I was a sparkologist before the war, and Updraft made sure I looked after your carrier.”

“Why would Updraft have made sure of _that?_ ” Mistral said. Her voice had a desperate edge, her wings twitching as she swung her gaze to the other Seeker. “What else were you lying about?”

“I knew your parents better than I let on,” Updraft said quietly. Her wings were dipped as low as they could be. “But I really haven’t seen them since before Vos fell.”

“What are you talking about?” Uppercut said. She knew her optics were wide, and her stance probably intimidating, but she couldn’t care. “How could she not know? About your family?”

“Your _what?!_ ”

“Quiet,” Uppercut said sharply.

The two Seekers went still. Her spark scanner, still on high alert, had picked up new signatures down the hall, and that was too close for comfort. If one of the others picked up _these_ …

“Someone there?” Updraft asked. Uppercut nodded, and pointed one finger towards the door.

“Caminus, Prion, and Eukaris are all sparklet-friendly,” she said. “Now, quick. That storm hasn’t gotten better.”

“I want answers,” Mistral said. She almost snarled it, and Uppercut would have ached for her any other moment. She strode forward, unlocked the door—and shoved them both outside, before the snow could blow too loudly.

“Be careful,” she hissed. Then the door snapped shut.

Muffled voices were all that kept her from falling apart that second. Stepping lightly, she unlocked the hallway entrance, and poked her head slowly out.

What she saw was a purple back, with treads hanging from their shoulders like a grisly cape. One hand rested lazily on the wall, and beyond him was Pharma's lithe frame, hands on his hips.

“I’ll have two more for you soon,” her superior. “They wouldn’t have woken up anyway.”

She knew he was talking about the miners from the last cave-in—two hopeless, one dead—but on the lives of every newspark she’d delivered, she couldn’t say why he would be telling this to _Tarn_ , leader of the DJD.

Standing just down the hall from her, fully armed, and speaking with a lead Autobot physician.

“See that you have six,” said. His voice rumbled, from walls, to the floor, through Uppercut’s feet and up her backstrut.

“Six? Tarn—”

“Your research, dear doctor,” Tarn said. “It’s so important. I’d truly like for you to be able to continue doing it.”

There was a silence almost as horrible as Tarn's rumbling voice. Uppercut willed her legs to stay upright, and waited for Pharma to start answering before she let it click shut. She didn’t catch his answer, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

She was well away from the door, near the outside entrance, when she sank to her knees. Suddenly the whole universe felt like a lashing storm, where nothing could offer shelter from the blinding snow and strut-deep cold.

She hoped Updraft was flying away fast.

 


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truths are told. Windjammer adjusts to life on Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for waiting patiently for this chapter! Knowing that you guys are reading is so important to me, and your comments really, really make my day.
> 
> If anyone's taken a liking to Windjammer so far (I hope you have) we'll be peeling a bit of the onion that is him this time. Thanks again! I'm sorry updates have been more sporadic, but I work a full-time job now as well as do art freelance. You guys sticking around has been so appreciated.

The flight back to the _Cumulus_ was overwarm, despite the blowing snow. When they touched down, Airstrike was peering out the door, squinting into the wind until he caught sight of them. His optics widened, and he threw the door open, holding out both hands. Mistral, thrusters burning as hot as her spark, let him grab her.

“In, in, you’re gonna freeze,” Airstrike fussed. His hand burned on her plating, so she was colder than she’d thought. Updraft tried to turn left to her room (their room, really, there was no one else for Mistral to share with), but in a moment Contrail was there too.

“Mistral?” he said, and she was almost touched that he looked so concerned. “You hurt? We checked on you and you weren’t here and—”

“This is an _Autobot_ base,” Airstrike said shortly. “We looked.”

Updraft, for her part, said nothing. So Mistral spoke instead.

“Your trine leader is a traitor,” she said. “And a liar.”

To her surprise, Contrail started to _smile_. What? “That can’t be all, bitlet. We’re all a bunch of _—boss!_ ”

Updraft hadn’t passed out, but she had stumbled, now being held up by Airstrike’s broad arms and not her own weight. Her optics were sallow, and flickered low light. In spite of her anger, Mistral felt a rush of fear.

She’d never know what Updraft was lying about if she died. At least, that’s what she told herself as Contrail shoved past her, lifting Updraft’s chin so tenderly that it made her think of Thundercracker with her, long ago.

“Stay with us, boss,” he said, his wings pricked much too high. “Flying fast like that in the cold is bad for anyone.”

“It’s not the cold,” Updraft murmured. Mistral stood still as Airstrike got her gently on the work area’s berth, on her side so he could arrange her wings.

“Well, the cold’s not helping it,” Mistral said after a moment.

Updraft had enough strength to throw her a desperate look. Then she sighed, letting her cheek rest against Contrail’s hand.

“I haven’t been truthful with Mistral,” Updraft said. She shuttered her optics. “Or you two.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk,” Airstrike said. He had…something in his hands, that he was apparently using to take a reading with. He must have rigged up his own scanner with whatever he’d found.

“This is the best time to talk,” Updraft said.

“We know you hide stuff,” Contrail said. “It’s okay. You know we understand.”

Airstrike nodded. “We’ve always understood.”

“Well, I don’t,” Mistral said.

Updraft’s trinemates turned to look at her, and for the first time she realized they were still dangerous. They had welcomed her in, more easily than Updraft might ever, but Mistral remembered abruptly who they were loyal to.

“Boys,” Updraft said. Even in exhaustion, she could make them snap to attention.

“Sorry,” Contrail said quietly. “Say your piece, Updraft.”

She shifted, and sighed. “I was pretending not to be sick, but I’m _really_ not, technically. I'm carrying.”

They both stared at her. Mistral resisted the urge to push Contrail’s jaw closed again. Their two sets of wings pricked up, Airstrike’s longer ones bumping the wall.

“You’re…yeah,” Airstrike said, very quietly. “This is registering five sparks aboard. Not four. I…”

“I went to Messatine to see Uppercut,” Updraft went on. Contrail’s vents hitched.

“She’s still alive?” he said. “She still help 'Cons?”

“Well, she helped me,” Updraft said. Her optics were looking brighter again, at least, trained on Mistral. “I was going to get it terminated, but it’s too far along.”

“It would take you with it,” Airstrike said quietly. One thumb stroked Updraft’s finial, and Mistral wondered if her parent’s trine had been this affectionate once. You became more like siblings, bound together and with only each other for company. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t know until I last saw Royale,” she said. “And before that…I was trying to will myself better. You worry enough.”

“Yeah,” Airstrike snorted. “And you made it worse.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Updraft said, dimming her optics again. “You know I love you both.”

Their optics went wide, staring at her. Adorable. Obviously the last thing they had expected (silly, when they should have known), but still dancing around the issue at hand. They could be all cute later.

“All well and good for Contrail and Airstrike, but I need my answers.” Mistral finally took a step forward, and looked at all three of them in turn. She hoped her wings didn’t quiver like her spark did in her chest. “Apparently you’re _all_ traitors, anyway.”

Contrail straightened up. “Talking to _that_ Autobot isn’t being a traitor, Mistral. She used to treat sick 'Cons. Saved my life.”

“Did you know she was—”

“My sister?” Updraft said. “Yeah, they did. But they’re warborn, Mistral. Younger than you.”

“We’re not super versed in this whole _family_ thing,” Contrail said, shrugging. “Never had 'em, don’t understand 'em.”

“Wrong choice of words,” Airstrike said quietly. “We do know what that is, of course. Just…not much about sparked mechs. That’s what he means.”

“But I guess we’ll meet another one soon,” Contrail said. He almost breathed the words, like they were some incomprehensible cipher.

“I did know your parents, Mistral,” Updraft said. She didn’t sit up (her trine would have ended this then and there), but her optics were bright and aware again. “Extremely well, actually.”

“How well?” Mistral asked quietly. “And why didn’t you just _tell_ me?”

“I…” Updraft winced. “I didn’t leave them on good terms. And I’m ashamed I couldn’t fix that. You were only a baby the last time I saw them. And you.”

No wonder Updraft had acted so odd when they met. Mistral was certainly distinct, and she’d always been proud of being the brightest one in the room. But it still didn’t explain the _lies._

“Why did you part on bad terms?” Mistral asked. “Were you a student of Thundercracker’s? Windblade was. She looked after me on Caminus.”

Of course she would have been a favourite, flying like that. And of course Thundercracker taught her, if she was so good at what she did.

“Not quite how you’re thinking,” Updraft said. “He tutored me when I was a sparklet.”

“Whose sparklet would have mattered _that_ much to him?” Mistral sputtered. “You would have to be—”

Mistral remembered abruptly a morning from a long time ago. Long enough that she had been in Vos, her parents’ trine still together. When the war had barely started. Their trine leader had drawn her up onto his knee, because her parents never willingly handed her over. She didn’t recall minding his presence—but she had had to behave in it.

She couldn’t remember what had been _said,_ but it had been something about a nurse, and how his own had had one. Thundercracker had told him no, that they were doing fine raising her without help. They didn’t want to entrust her with strangers if they could help it.

Apparently, during the war they really couldn’t help it.

Mistral had not wanted a nurse, but she had wondered who Starscream had hired his own for. This was distant and fuzzy, like all of Vos, but it rang clear enough that she had wondered as a sparklet about it.

Now she looked at Updraft, small and sleek and holding steady to her gaze.

“I know whose sparklet you are,” Mistral said quietly.

“Was,” Updraft said. She didn’t ask who that would be, or what Mistral thought of it. “It's been awhile since I was one of those.”

“We’re missing something,” Airstrike said. “ _Whose_ sparklet were you?”

There was no answer, because the ship's comm beeped loudly and the screen on the wall sprang to life. Updraft pushed Airstrike's hands away and sat up quickly, flaring her optic colour bright again.

“That shouldn’t do that on its own,” Contrail said nervously. He stepped around Mistral—and pulled her aside, out of view.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” all three of them said.

“Mistral,” Updraft said quickly, “the moment this is done we’ll finish this, but only Decepticon command frequencies can bypass our channel.”

“Command hasn’t sent anything out since Simanzi,” Airstrike said nervously. “We could have blocked the message. I still could, if you—”

Updraft held up her hand. “They’re sending it now—and we haven’t blocked them. _Cumulus,_ we’re receiving. Please patch through.”

 

* * *

Windjammer wouldn’t speak to anyone.

Not on his own, anyway. If Optimus sent him on a patrol, or to investigate an old mine, he said “yes, sir,” and just about fled. Ever since Agent Fowler had brought him a big cargo plane to scan, he’d spent a lot of time on patrols.

If Ratchet asked how his injury was, he said “better.” Sometimes he would reply to a greeting from the Autobots, but Miko was pretty sure he was actively avoiding the humans.

Oh, and Bulkhead.

Her guardian was incredibly close-lipped about their newest arrival, besides the fact that he didn’t like him. Even on drives, just the two of them, he wasn’t willing to talk. It was nothing like Wheeljack, who Bulkhead had story after story about.

“Wheeljack worked with him, too,” was one tidbit she got. “He was an engineer on site. Paid better than labourer.”

“You were a labourer?” Miko asked. “What was Windjammer?”

“Labourer, too,” Bulkhead said shortly. “Constructicon worker. It’s been a few million years since I saw him, but I don’t trust him. Not after Rodion.”

“What is _Rodion?_ ” Miko said. She sighed, as dramatically as she could, before flopping back in Bulkhead's seat.

“A city,” Bulkhead said. “And we’re done talking about Windjammer. Got that?”

“I guess,” Miko said. When Bulkhead decided something, it was very hard to get him to change his mind. Particularly if it involved protecting Miko from something—and clearly, Bulkhead wanted her safe from this new arrival.

Who showed absolutely no signs of being dangerous, as far as Miko could tell.

Oh, he was _huge_ , and could probably break stuff with the best of them, but he almost tiptoed around the base. He pulled his wings in so tight it looked like it hurt, and seemed to slouch just to look smaller. He hardly knocked anything over, which was disappointing. If Miko or Jack started to approach him, he always seemed to find something to do at that moment.

Raf didn’t get close to him, but Miko knew he was always watching the big mech. And listening. He could pick up on the Neocybex the Autobots sometimes spoke, more accurately than they probably guessed. Miko couldn’t dream of parsing an alien language, and had never bothered trying. English had been plenty of extra to learn.

And there was the matter of sires.

Oh, sure, it was a parent, and a Decepticon called Breakdown had  been one. Big deal, so were tons of humans. But then there was the whole idea of alien robots being _parents_ , when they’d _thought_ that Cybertronians were built. Or born, from the ground, something Arcee had once tried to explain and had left Miko totally confused.

Raf had found some answers. “Oh, Bee says rich mechs could have kids,” he said, not even looking up from his computer. “You had to get permission, though, not just anyone could do it. He called them sparklets.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “But…how? And why’d you have to be rich?”

Raf shrugged, looking flustered. “No idea,” he said. “But I guess it’s…private. Like humans. Bee said to ask Ratchet.”

“I would literally rather ask Megatron,” Jack said, so flatly that Miko had believed him completely.

So they didn’t find out. Bulkhead had also stuttered out something about asking Ratchet, and if Jack was brave enough to ask Arcee where robot babies come from, Miko hadn’t heard about it.

So they continued on like that, Windjammer actively avoiding almost everyone and Miko going crazy trying to get some intel. Maybe she should get in better with Bumblebee, really learn some spy tips.

“Give him time,” Ratchet scolded one morning. “He’s had a difficult time adjusting, and he hardly needs nosey children bothering him on top of it.”

Windjammer had disappeared into the big bedroom (or _berthroom,_ as if English wasn’t annoying enough without Cybertronian terms thrown in), and Ratchet had seen her slide slowly off the couch to follow. Hence, yet another lecture.

“Ugh,” Miko had said, and turned the TV up louder. “I wasn’t doing _anything!_ You're too old. You're seeing things that aren’t there.”

The command station beeped, and Ratchet turned away to take it. Mumbling about “ _the youth_ ” or something similar. But, Miko realized, taking the comm privately, and now distracted enough for her to slide off the couch and get quickly down the stairs, towards the hall. If the old mech saw her go, he said nothing of it, and Miko savoured her victory.

The doors didn’t lock right in the silo. Privacy was hard to come by for the bots, but Miko had never thought much about it. It was easy to see Windjammer's bulk through the crack in the door, and she didn’t even have to pull it open so she could step through it.

When Windjammer saw her, his optics flashed, and his shoulders stiffened. He started to get up, setting the tablet he’d had in his lap aside.

“You have to go,” he said. At his (almost) full height, his head nearly brushed the room's ceiling. His colour was a darker, greyer green than Bulk's, and between it and his bright yellow optics, he cut an intimidating picture.

Miko, however, had already stared up at mechs with raised guns and cruel snarls, who would want to hurt her. Windjammer was not that. She held out her arms, and stepped a bit closer to his foot. As expected, he shrank back towards the recharge slab. It was pretty easy to make an Autobot move one way or the other, if you knew what made them afraid to step on you.

“Bulkhead’s away all weekend,” she said quickly. “Tracking energon leads. Bee won’t rat me out, and Ratch is busy. So—”

“I still can’t talk to you,” he said. More firmly, but not nearly firm enough to stop Miko. “Little human, don’t. Your guardian will be upset.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Miko said. She snapped her fingers, eyes brightening. “I know! Let’s go flying.”

Windjammer looked utterly baffled. “What?”

“No one’s _said_ we can’t go flying with you,” Miko said. She grinned, trying to look reassuring. “I heard OP say your alt mode blends in good here. Now that Agent Fowler gave you human frequencies, anyway. _Please?_ ”

His optic ridges furrowed, and he looked just as confused. Except now he looked _sad,_ too, optics dimmer, and Miko paused.

She switched tactics. By...dropping tactics entirely, because he'd clearly already felt pretty bad.

“Optimus Prime trusts you,” she said. “So I can trust you, too. Bulk's issue's personal, and he’s not making sense.”

Windjammer stared at her in silence for a moment. Miko expected to be pointed towards the door again (even gently pushed out, if he decided to risk it). Before he could open his mouth, Miko straightened her shoulders and opened hers.

“You don’t _really_ have to take me if you don’t want to,” she said quickly. “Though I really, really, _really_ want to. New bots are usually 'Cons and you can’t get up close.”

Windjammer’s wings flicked minutely. Like he was some kind of big metal dragonfly thinking about taking off, cornered by some predator. Except Miko was just a little human, who couldn’t hurt him (but was rather proud of how good her cornering skills had gotten).

“Why are you calling me Jammer?” he asked finally.

“Well…your name's long,” Miko said in surprise. “Wind-jammer. They’re kinda weird syllables together.”

To her surprise, he smiled. “It’s a bit of a clunky translation,” he said. “In Neocybex it’s the same thing, it just flows better. I picked it myself.”

It was the most he’d said to anyone since his arrival, and inside Miko cheered loudly. Outside, she grinned, and put her hands on her hips.

“Human parents pick their kid's names,” she said. “But you picked yours? Is that how it worked?”

She tried not to look too excited when Windjammer finally stepped back, and sat slowly back down on the slab.

“They gave me another name, but when I got my upgrade I changed it,” he said. “That’s your right back home, when you’re of age. You pick your own name.”

“Sometimes humans change theirs,” Miko said. Oh, the boys would _flip_ when they realized Miko had finally gotten to learn about the new guy _._ Bulkhead would too, but for different reasons. “So your parents were 'Cons?”

Wrong thing to say. Windjammer looked away, huffing out a vent of air.

“I was ignited way before _Decepticons_ ,” he said, like that would mean anything to her. “They are _now_ , if they’re alive.’” He turned his optics back on her, smiling wryly. “You’re lucky you remind me of someone. Or I really would kick you out.”

“Oh yeah?” Miko asked. “Who’s that?”

It took him a moment to come up with an answer he liked, that only hurt a little.

“My…friends,” he said finally. “Bots I was close to a long time ago. They called me Jammer, too.”

“I don’t have to call you that,” Miko said more quietly. “If you don’t like it. Do you miss those bots?”

His smile went sad. “Yeah,” he said. “Tons. But...I don’t mind if you call me that.”

“Cool,” Miko said cheerfully. “Then I’ll call you Jammer, Jammer! Now that I’ve finally gotten you talking, and it’s not so bad, right?”

Windjammer shrugged. “I keep to myself.”

Miko grinned. “You don’t have to, y'know. Everyone’s really cool. Well…not Ratchet, he’s _super_ old, but everyone else. And Bulkhead'll come around.”

“Oh, Wreckers can hold grudges,” Windjammer said. “Don’t count on that. By the way, all Autobots are old. It’s been a long fight.”

“Well…” Miko said, hands on her hips. “Guess I’m just super cool and young, right?”

When Windjammer smiled, she couldn’t imagine being scared of him, even if he _was_ as big as Megatron. He raised one optic ridge at her.

“Guess we'll see about cool, eh, kid?”

Miko grinned, and leaned against the wall. So far, she’d say getting through to their biggest, shyest bot was pretty cool, too.

 

* * *

The little aliens weren’t scared of him.

A lot of Autobots were scared of Windjammer when he lifted his wings or brightened his optics, so he’d wondered at how fearless these creatures were around him. They were fearless of big, dangerous soldiers in general, and Miko especially clambered on the Autobots like big jungle gyms. The boys were more subtle, sure, but they didn't jump out of his way or recoil in fear.

The other Autobots were incredibly, almost unbelievably tolerant of their little companions, too. Windjammer had mistaken it for disrespect before realizing they were children, and indulged as such. What would little humans know about the Cybertronian power structure?

Primus, Miko had asked about his _wings._ What he turned into! They had no vehicle modes, so maybe they couldn’t understand. Ratchet would have to teach them a few manners if they were going to keep hanging around their kind.

The first _fully_ - _grown_ human he met was from their government, and much more wary. As expected—and frankly, less unnerving.

“My god,” Agent Fowler had said, throwing up his hands. He had looked Windjammer up and down, like he was the worst thing to ever happen to him, and sighed. “Optimus.”

Their Prime seemed used to this little man chewing him out. “Yes, Agent Fowler?”

“ _How_ is he supposed to stay a robot in disguise?” he asked. “His patrols won’t be as far-reaching, that’s for sure.”

Optimus had raised a brow. “Bulkhead and I do well enough in our frames.”

“It’s the wings,” Agent Fowler said. “Airspace is tightly controlled on Earth, you know. I’ll have to pull some strings so big guy here doesn’t get caught out by air traffic control.”

Whatever he’d done, Windjammer hadn’t been privy to it, but he would have liked to see the documents. Humans seemed to be organized by habit, if they had at least evolved enough to attempt simple space travel. Much of their data was still transmitted through hard copies, though there was a significant digital presence, and at the Iacon headquarters they would never have tolerated sifting through files on paper, easily damaged—

He had wondered if he could have helped with some of the logistics of Earth, something more like his job before the war. Coordination of forces, record keeping, organization. But there were only six of them, and Ratchet was protective of his station. Better he do what the military had always expected of him.

So he had been able to fly in peace, if not very often. In this desert place called Jasper, there was plenty of room to patrol without being disturbed. Not that he really wanted to be, since there wasn’t anyone he could fly with here. And something to _do_ would mean he’d be fighting, and maybe he didn’t object to a rest from that.

It would be nice to talk to Bulkhead. Someone from the old days, who had welcomed Windjammer onto the build site and always had a little kindness for his workers. It had been something hard to come by in Rodion then.

Clearly the war had made him fearsome. And stubborn.

And Windjammer couldn’t _leave._ There was energon here, and safety, and the possibility that he could follow some old leads.

The Decepticons were here, after all. And they had taken everything away, but maybe Windjammer could put something together from the ashes.

Knock Out and Breakdown had still been alive a thousand centuries ago. That was more than Windjammer had known, which meant it was a start.

Of course, a certain big, unhappy bruiser was going to notice his charge's new interest. Miko knew it too, but Windjammer doubted it would stop her.

He and Bulkhead were passing ships, if they had to be in the command centre together. Bulkhead would make a show of paying attention to Miko instead, or of speaking with Arcee and Bumblebee. If Optimus noticed, he said nothing about it, and Ratchet had taken to huffing and shaking his head at the spectacle. (Granted, it was his response to most of this team's antics, so maybe Windjammer shouldn’t have read much into it.)

What he wanted to do was go on quietly, until Bulkhead chose to approach him. There was nothing else to do—he couldn’t _leave,_ not the Prime's personal team.

So one morning, when he and Bulkhead couldn’t pass by as fast as either of them would want, and Miko waved cheerfully from the human's little couch, Windjammer straightened up.

Not too much, or his wings would do what they wanted and knock something over. Just enough to feel brave, like someone was still there encouraging him. He missed that.

(“ _Optic contact is the hallmark of a good interaction,”_ said his carrier's singsong voice. _“Everything is there, which is why it’s nerve-wracking. Look into them for who they are, sweet spot.”_ )

It wasn’t that hard to think like a cadet again, approaching his mentor with questions or presenting in front of the lecture hall. Of course, there was no briliant red Seeker in the front room, flashing him a thumbs-up. No little speedsters, smiling with rare shyness. He’d learned how to do this himself.

“Bulkhead,” he said.

No one except Miko had optics on them, but Windjammer knew they were listening. Bulkhead paused, his meagre energon ration mostly gone. Only the corner of his blue optic was on him, bright and suspicious.

“Windjammer,” he said after a moment. Polite and distant, or as good at that as he could be. Maybe even a smidge of guilty, but he’d never been good enough at reading people to know.

Windjammer brought his wings down. If he really paid attention, they nearly brushed the ground, and rarely got in anyone’s way. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah?” Bulkhead said more quietly. He turned to his cube, quickly drained what was left, and set it down so softly that it barely made a noise. “You didn’t seem interested the last while.”

“I don’t think it was interest stopping me,” Windjammer said. “Come talk, because we work together now, and I’d like to solve this before it gets worse.”

Bulkhead looked ready to stalk off, but Miko's grin was brilliant from the couch. She waved, and Windjammer suppressed his smile.

“Fine,” Bulkhead said, easing himself up. “In the hall, kid. It's personal.”

Only then did Ratchet look up, watching them sharply as they made their way. He was an old mech, and Optimus and Bumblebee were elsewhere on a mission. Arcee was making a show of not looking, but if Bulkhead pounced again Windjammer might not be able to stop him. Not without severe damage to their very secret base, at least.

When they had turned the corner, Bulkhead paused. He didn’t look at Windjammer, but the corner of his optics burned brighter than before.

“I thought you joined up with Breakdown,” he said. “The shop was boarded up last I saw it.”

The shop was rubble now, no different from Cybertron, and Windjammer wondered when it was Bulkhead had stopped by. Before Rodion fell? After, before the Autobots tried to bomb it back?

“I never joined up,” Windjammer said. “I told them they could do what they liked, but I wouldn’t get involved with Megatron.”

“I thought you’d be all over that stuff,” Bulkhead said. He didn’t look ready to fight, but Windjammer hadn't lived this long by being relaxed. “We all were. Not ashamed to admit that any more.”

Windjammer sighed. “I didn’t want a revolution,” he said. “I wanted to help get reforms through. I was already helping people where I was—”

“That’s naïve, kid,” Bulkhead said, interrupting. “By then the war was coming, whether you liked it or not. Reforms were too slow.”

“And look where it got us,” Windjammer said, more fiercely. It wasn’t the first time someone had prodded him about his late Autobrand. It was still one of the less unpleasant versions of the conversation so far.

“We couldn’t have known,” Bulkhead said quietly. “We’re all sure paying the price, though. Would have enlisted earlier if someone told me it could change anything.”

He looked pained, and that made Windjammer feel worse. Bad enough that they were all stuck on a mudball this far from home, with no planet and the old reasons to win just dust.

“To answer your question,” Windjammer started, unable to take the silence. “Your first question: I didn’t join up. I kept working with the Elite Guard until the attack on Iacon disbanded us. Commander Ironhide tried to keep some order for awhile, but the squadrons left broke up when people started going for the _Ark._ ”

“I tried going for the _Ark,_ too,” Bulkhead said, smiling wryly. “Went about as well as you’ve heard.”

“I almost left with a neutral ship, but I felt like such a coward that I directed supplies in Polyhex,” Windjammer said. “That was when you could still be a neutral contractor. Just as well, because that ship was shot down before it left orbit.”

Bulkhead shifted uncomfortably. “So no Decepticon activity. Like…if Optimus ever dug up a record, there wouldn’t even be a hint.”

Windjammer snorted. “Besides the time I dragged to see Megatron speak. I’ve never been a 'Con, and I never will be.”

“Gotcha,” Bulkhead said. He was staring at Windjammer, who allowed himself a hint of satisfaction at dealing with this. “Uh…I guess I’m sorry, then. About before. Not like you’ve been aggressive since you got here.”

Windjammer shrugged. What was he supposed to say? “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me too, kid,” Bulkhead said. The corner of his lip twitched, but he didn’t smile. Windjammer noted with relief that there was no clap on the shoulder, no physical contact without permission. It was nice to see he remembered.

“You should know Miko snuck over to talk to me recently,” Windjammer said. He was fairly sure Bulkhead would no longer want to pound his face into dust, and by extension didn’t think he would kill his human by accident. “She made sure she planted herself right next to my foot, so I was afraid to move.”

Bulkhead cracked a grin then. “She does that when she wants something. Looks like she wanted to talk to you. What'd she ask?”

“Fairly invasive questions about sparked mechs,” Windjammer said. “And she wants me to take her flying. I guess that part’s up to you, 'cause I’m worried I’ll knock her around. I’m not…graceful.”

“Nah, you won’t,” Bulkhead said. “The human vehicles come with seatbelts. Make sure not to move unless she’s strapped in. Land if she undoes it.”

“She doesn’t have great self-preservation instincts,” Windjammer said nervously. Bulkhead shrugged, optics warm.

“She’s just a kid,” he said. “It’s good to have her around. Makes me remember there’s more to life than the war.”

“She makes me think—” Windjammer started to say. The pain in his spark, a low ache that flared when he could least tolerate it, made him clear his vocalizer.

Bulkhead tilted his head. Apparently Windjammer had shifted back to trustworthy quickly, because he looked genuinely concerned. “Makes you think of what?”

Windjammer shrugged. A spot on the wall, where the paint had started to rub off some old signage, had suddenly become very interesting.

“You don’t know what happened to Uppercut, do you?” he asked. His voice was soft. “I know she joined a hospital ship. Neutral. I also know it got shot down near K'th Kinsere the moment it came back into orbit.”

Bulkhead's optics dawned with understanding. He shook his head, and his hand hovered, like he was resisting the urge to touch Windjammer’s shoulder.

“I don’t,” he said. “Sorry, Windjammer. We're scattered these days.”

“Worse than scattered,” Windjammer said. He shrugged, his sire's voice in the back of his mind: It can’t be helped.

Bulkhead tilted his head. “Your other sister, kid? When’d you last hear of her?”

Windjammer frowned, and the pain went sharp again. “I don’t want to hear about her.”

“Oh.” Bulkhead looked confused. Windjammer remembered that he had left the build sites well before the worst of all this, and the information might not have made it. “Wasn’t she in the Guard, with you?”

“She was,” Windjammer said. His optics had dimmed, and his voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. “And she listened to Megatronus every night.”

“I get it,” Bulkhead said quietly. “Sorry, kid.”

“You don’t,” Windjammer said, turning away on quick steps. “Not quite. But thanks.”

“Miko can have a ride with you if she wants,” Bulkhead called to him as he left. Of course the little human in question had heard, and they could both hear her from the other room: “Really? Right now?”

No, not right then. Windjammer headed for the exit, so he could start his patrol before he had to answer anything else. His own thoughts were hard enough.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Decepticons come together, as a few Autobot medics splinter apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot to say this time, only that I'm really excited about this chapter and I feel like things are really heating up ;D Like I've said, everyone's support means so much and your comments and kudos mean the world!
> 
> I'm planning on fiiiinally drawing out all these characters soon, so people can have more of a visual reference. I hope you guys like that too!

The vidscreen crackled to life, the colour just a bit off and the cracked corner flickering. It had been a long time since she had seen him—holovids or real life—but Mistral still recognized Starscream.

The trine all tensed. Wordlessly Airstrike’s wings flicked up, covering Mistral from the vidscreen's view. She resisted the urge to shove him out of the way, but only because Updraft was visibly steeling herself. Contrail was biting his lip fearfully, and Mistral wondered when the last time they had all seen Starscream was. Had Updraft trined before the outer rim?

In the end, if Mistral made a fuss, Updraft might have to push too hard, and hurt herself. And Mistral found she didn’t want her to be hurt. Not like this, not at _all,_ in front of a mech so dangerous.

“My dear daughter,” Starscream purred. He sounded the same, too. It was hard to forget that voice. “Dear little Updraft, you’ve changed your colours. So _dark_.”

“I’m sure you’re calling about more important things than my paint, carrier,” Updraft said. She slid off the berth, her frame now at attention, and her voice clipped. Practiced. “It’s been some time since we heard from high command.”

“Surely through no fault of your own,” Starscream drawled. “This signal is coming _quite_ a long ways, _Lieutenant._ And it’s been some time since you reported to…hm, to anyone.”

“It was only recently that comm channels started coming back online,” Updraft said, and Mistral hoped she was being truthful. “Most Decepticon cells just tried to survive since the Fleet went dark. Something you should know.”

Starscream waved his hand. “And here I thought you were more capable than just _surviving._ You always flew so far on your own.”

No wonder Updraft hadn’t bothered with her carrier. Mistral couldn’t imagine tolerating being spoken to like that, but it seemed to roll right off Updraft. Near her, Contrail's optics flashed angrily. But he was smart enough to say nothing, at least while they were still connected.

Updraft tilted her helm. “I’d call survival the ultimate achievement,” she said, her optics brighter. “About one percent of Cybertron's population is probably still alive, not counting Eradicons, and that’s a generous number.”

_One percent?_ Mistral’s tanks clenched. In her lessons with Thundercracker, the number had been more like twenty. Still dismal, but not so spark-churning as _one,_ that tiny fraction _._

And here they were, among that number. Obviously Updraft was not counting colonists. But who did? It was the reason it was safe to hide sparklets there at all, when Cybertronians only thought about their own rock.

Primus. She was more Camien than she’d wanted, thinking like that.

She could hear muffled tapping on the vidscreen's other side, Starscream’s claws on the console. He was smiling, but it was icy. He didn’t seem to have noticed Mistral, and for that she was grateful.

“Well, how glad I am that you’re among them,” he said. “Updraft, I am localizing my air command. There are _far_ fewer officers alive than I would like, but here you are, and there appear to be others under your command. You will report directly to the _Nemesis_ , orbiting an organic planet called Earth. Megatron wants his forces together again for a great push.”

Coordinates flashed onscreen, and Mistral frowned. From one galactic armpit to another, apparently. Updraft folded her arms, raising an optic ridge skeptically.

“Couldn’t get who you wanted, then?” she said shortly. “So you came to me?”

“I _ordered_ you,” Starscream said, a snarl curling in his vocalizer. Mistral’s spark fluttered, and constricted, and she wondered if Updraft had forgotten who was in the room with her. Or maybe she was hyper-aware. “I am ordering you now, and I am _working_ on returning my trine to me.” Starscream lifted one hand, inspecting his claws, as if they were talking about the flight conditions. “Oh, you’re coming to _me_ , but your sire's here. And Dreadwing.”

Updraft’s optics snapped wide, for just a moment. Mistral frowned, trying to think if she’d heard the name Dreadwing before. Updraft sank her wings back to a relaxed state, but the damage had been done. Starscream looked so smug that Mistral wondered how her parents had stood to _trine_ with him, for so long. How had they been upset to leave him?

Mistral didn’t want to go.

But she wanted to be a Decepticon, and _this_ Decepticon could help her find the mechs dearest to her. He was one degree away from Skywarp and Thundercracker, even if they had been apart for most of Mistral’s life. And he wanted them back, too.

“How’s the flying,” Updraft asked quietly, “on this organic planet of yours?”

“Serviceable, considering,” Starscream said. “No metal-eating acid from the sky, no fire clouds...I look forward to putting you through your paces. You’ll enjoy that, I’m sure?”

Updraft folded her arms. “No one has ever enjoyed your company, _Air_ _Commander_.”

Starscream went still, and for a moment Mistral was pleased Updraft would trade barbs. This rude, patronizing excuse for a trine leader—an _Air Commander,_ of Vos and the Decepticons _—_ clearly deserved it.

Then fear replaced her pride, because Starscream worked closely with Megatron himself. Maybe he would let Updraft—or her tiny crew—suffer for any insolence. (And he seemed like _exactly_ the sort of mech who would use the word insolence _._ )

Starscream’s optics flashed, but he didn’t lose his temper. Not then, anyway. “You had better act better than _that_ around our liege,” he said, flicking his wings. “I’m in good enough standing to call you home, and I outrank you. _And_ Knock Out.”

Updraft didn’t flick her wings, didn’t gnaw her bottom lip in worry. (Contrail’s was going to have energon flowing from it at this rate.) She stood as tall as she could, a commander, and Mistral offered more credit to posture than she had before.

“We'll set course immediately,” she said. “We have a small quantum engine. It should only take a few jumps.”

“Naturally,” Starscream purred. “Well, you’ll comm me the moment you’re in this star system. And I expect you to _be_ here.”

“I was ordered by the Air Commander,” Updraft said flatly. “I will be. And I’m disconnecting.”

Starscream huffed, and the line clicked closed on his end. For a moment, Updraft kept standing straight, every inch the fearless officer, her optics glinting like was facing down terror bravely.

Then she sank, slowly, to the ground, sliding against the berth.

“Boss!” Contrail squeaked, and, yep, there was energon dripping from his lip. He didn’t help her up, but kneeled next to her, his hands on her shoulder. “Is—is Starscream really your _creator?_ ”

“We can’t really be going there,” Airstrike said. He stepped away from Mistral, and gently brought Updraft to her feet. “Not to Megatron's ship. That’s crazy.”

“It certainly is,” Updraft said. She wouldn’t look at either of them. “And I have to. It’s a special favour to Starscream from Lord Megatron himself.”

“Mechs like us don’t even _meet_ Megatron,” Contrail said. “He has special Eradicon squadrons. Even his _clones_ are special!”

“You don’t have to go,” Updraft said, more gently. “I can say anything to explain why I’m there alone, and it won’t matter.”

Both of them paused, and she’d surely known they would. Contrail stared at her goggle-eyed. Airstrike worried his hands together next to Mistral, optics too bright.

“We can’t leave _you,_ ” Contrail said finally. “And he probably saw us on the vid.”

“Well, I have to go,” Updraft said. “Or someone a lot scarier than Starscream will come looking for me.”

Airstrike sighed. He leaned over, and tapped gently over Updraft’s spark chamber. She shook her head.

“I’ll figure something out,” she said, more firmly than she must have felt. “We actually have bigger problems, believe it or not.”

“Uppercut said we should go to a colony,” Mistral burst out. They all looked at her, and she raised her wings to make herself feel brave. “If you don’t have the right newspark frame for it and it’s time for it to come off, you’ll die.”

Updraft's trine looked so frightened that Mistral almost regretted saying it, but they were big mechs, and they would have to start facing this big scary world. It was coming at them a thousand miles per minute.

Updraft rubbed Contrail’s hand with her small one, pulled her wings up high, and stepped away from her trine. “Knock Out is there too, and he’s my sire,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver. “He’s also a medic, and he’s resourceful. _And,_ I've known Dreadwing since I was very young. We have friends there.”

“Friends won’t keep you safe from high command,” Contrail snorted.

Updraft shook her head. “No,” she said. “But they’ll help. I promise we’re going to be okay. All of us.”

Airstrike and Contrail had reassured Mistral many times: Updraft knew what she was doing. Updraft had secrets, but everyone did. Trust in her.

Now they looked lost, like they were sifting through all that trust and wondering how much of it could stay solid. So Mistral had faith for them.

“You’re going to have to brand me before we get there,” she said, straightening up. “No one will be safe if you wander in with a neutral, even if Starscream will know me.”

Contrail blinked. “How will he know _you?_ ”

Mistral carried on in a rush. “He will. Updraft, Airstrike can darken that paint colour he’s mixed, and I’ll help him figure out how to magnetize it.” Updraft tilted her helm, but her optics glinted with something Mistral liked. Her anger towards her had ebbed, and the only frightening thing was figuring out where it went.

Airstrike’s wings dipped. “Okay. So you can turn it on or off? Do you know…how? That works?”

“Not even a little,” Mistral said. “But we’ll figure it out. I’m not changing my paint, but Megatron might be pleased with a stealth module. Maybe we could all have one.”

Updraft had folded her arms, and she looked entirely like an officer again. Skeptical, but not uninterested “I’m not sure you’ll figure out the paint. But…you sound like your sire when you talk like that.”

“I…wait, really?” Mistral said, stunned. Windblade had been taught by Thundercracker, kept at least cursory contact with him after her education. She had never thought to make that comparison. (Her delinquencies could probably be traced back to Skywarp, and she honestly couldn’t be prouder.)

Updraft smiled. “Really. We’ll keep up that response of yours to pressure. That’s good.”

“Then we’re doing better than we were,” Mistral said. Starscream ordering them to Megatron would not be a good thing, not really. He had certainly picked the worst possible time, with Updraft _carrying a spark_ and carrying the fears of two less experienced trinemates. Mistral doubted she would feel this satisfied once the gravity all this set down on her.

Still. She’d be getting some of the things she wanted. Mistral straightened, and even flashed half a smile Contrail and Airstrike’s way. “Sit down, _rest,_ and I’ll bring you energon. And you’ll tell me about how well you know my parents.”

 

* * *

Updraft thought the explosions were a nightmare.

She hadn’t had them in a long time, but they weren’t unfamiliar. In the top bunk, she had heard Mistral stirring with her own bad dreams. Now she heard her sit straight up, and hiss as her wings scraped the wall.

The ship shook again, something roaring against the hull, and Updraft sprung off her berth.

“Autobots?” she yelled as she slammed the door open. _Here?_ Maybe they hadn’t missed her presence on Messatine after all, so she prayed quickly for Uppercut. Being court martialed for double-crossing wasn’t much better for the other side.

Contrail, in the cockpit, screamed back. “Squishies! Black Block!”

“Fucking hell,” Updraft ground out. Another shot shook the _Cumulus,_ and on reflex she reached out to steady Mistral, tugging them towards the cockpit. “Shields at full power, do _not_ engage, and keep getting out of here!”

It wasn’t the first time some organic force had pinpointed their little Cybertronian vessel. It also wasn’t the first time it had been shot at, but Updraft still winced at the display's damage report.

_Sorry, newspark. Looks like I might not have to worry about us anyway._

Airstrike appeared too, squeezed in behind Contrail’s seat and his hands on his shoulders. His mouth was set in a line as he shared a glance with Updraft.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that they’re attracted to the quantum engine. We haven’t charged it up in forever.”

“Why does this shitty boat even _have_ one?” Mistral snapped. “One of Windblade's friends built those, they’re crazy expensive!”

So yesterday’s pragmatic, hopeful young Seeker had been replaced with her usual prickly self. They could work on that, when they weren’t close to dead.

“ _I_ built it out of a damaged one!” Airstrike snapped back. “And if it charges in time, you’re going to thank me!”

“We can’t shoot them down?” Mistral asked, more desperate. Updraft squeezed her arm, and shook her head.

“It’s likely a full battleship,” she said. “This is a modified cruiser.”

“It’s two,” Contrail said grimly. “Battleships, I mean. We’re just one cruiser, obviously.”

Updraft gritted her teeth. Of course it was.

The ship's comm clicked on just as another shot rocked them. Even at Contrail’s speed, Updraft couldn’t imagine them getting out of range before two or three more broke them apart. If they survived, she would be having _words_ with that technician on Regulon V. This shield was clearly not to military standard.

“What language does the Black Block deal in?” Airstrike said, staring at the comm.

“Galactic Standard, like the Council,” Updraft said. “And it won’t do any good, because I only know a little and they’re going to dissect us.”

“Like hell they are,” said a cheerful voice over the comm. It was in Neocybex, not some alien nonsense, and Updraft almost shuddered with relief.

Contrail's optics went wide. “Uh.”

“'Uh,' what?” asked the voice. “Decepticons, turn your ship just like…20 degrees? Then we’ll lock on.”

Updraft realized, over the gulf of millions of years, that she knew it. It was a cycle of old faces, apparently, and Updraft leaned forward.

“Copied, Misfire,” she said, trying to keep the smile out of her voice. They weren’t out of death's doorway yet. Unless his plan involved gunfire, so she tried not to think about that. “Do you have quantum movement? Because we’re trapped—”

“Yup,” he said, and she could hear him grin too. “You. Turning. Then you don’t die.”

Updraft snapped her helm up, and tapped Contrail's arm. Sometimes you had to play officer, to shove those two out of their old fear response. That had gotten easier over time.

“You heard the mech,” she said, more sharply than she meant to. Contrail pulled the controls back hastily, and Mistral yelped as she bumped into the seat in front of her.

“I— _yeah, they’re in place_ —okay, just three…two…one…”

The _Cumulus_ shot forward, out of normal space, and when they reappeared it was within a landing hangar. A much bigger, dark purple ship Updraft didn’t know, but sporting a large, messy Decepticon insignia on the opposite wall. Updraft let her wings dip, spark easing with relief.

And then they crashed.

* * *

 

 

“You haven’t been recharging.”

Uppercut dialed her optics back up to full power, looking up from her desk. Ambulon was leaning back in his chair, his own optics narrowed as he watched her.

“I’m getting enough,” she said. Technically, she outranked Ambulon, but he was their shift manager—and he’d been constructed well before she had. So she usually let him fuss, to a point.

“You’re not,” he said, and she felt the tickle of a full-body scan. “Right there, it’s been two days since you powered down fully. Since the whole business with First Aid, we need you of all mechs to be on top of everything possible—”

 “Rung was wrong,” Uppercut said. She went back to the supplies list, though she’d done half what she was supposed to so far. “First Aid's obsessive tendency wasn’t leaving an adverse affect on the patients—if anything, I'd believe it was helping him be more careful.”

“Uppercut,” Ambulon said in surprise. He wouldn’t have dreamed of smack talking high command decisions, not when they’d given him this chance.

Normally, Uppercut wouldn’t either. She hadn’t lived this long by speaking out.

“And,” she said, not looking up. “A nurse is a completely different discipline. Just because they’re all dead doesn’t mean you can demote a doctor into one. So don’t bring up what _you_ endorsed because you think I’m not working hard enough. They’re not related.”

Ambulon watched her for a long moment. Then he straightened up, and his faceplate went softer.

“You _are_ tired,” he said. “Of all the mechs here, you’re the one I never worry about.”

Uppercut snorted. “Then you should stress more. I’ve just been doing more thinking.”

“Well, you can do a little more resting,” he said, standing up. Deftly, he took the datapad from her hand, and Uppercut had to let him. She’d win a test of strength, but she’d use up ten years of goodwill doing it. Ambulon paused next to her desk, the datapad in hand, and tilted his helm. She wished he’d let him touch her up, because she could probably find something that would finally seal his chipped colour coat. (And she could get a closer look at those combiner seams.) “I didn’t think you liked First Aid.”

Uppercut's optics went wider. “What? Why not?”

Ambulon shrugged. “You never talk. Hardly even for work.”

“I don’t engage with people who don’t seem to like me. That’s all.” She stole a glance at the other datapad in front of her: _Requisition of T-Cogs, Sorted by Alt Mode._ Her spark did a somersault, and she turned quickly back to Ambulon. “He’s a good doctor—didn’t really get enough pre-war experience—but he’ll cross the room if I’m in there.”

Ambulon nodded, optics narrowed. “It’s a bit odd. He got used to me pretty quick, considering I’m a filthy defector.” Then he actually smiled, and Uppercut couldn’t help but feel a little affectionate towards him. “I got lucky with these optics. Nice plain yellow.”

Uppercut sighed, because now she was just thinking about the nice plain yellow optics no longer in her life. Not productive thoughts. She finally stood, and carefully stepped out from her desk (built for a mech Ambulon's size, not hers).

“I feel like he’s smarter than that,” she said. She forced a smile Ambulon’s way, one his lip quirked up at. “But who knows? You’re right, though, I need to get some recharge.”

“Do that,” Ambulon said. “You can’t make sense of Pharma's highly specific sorting without some rest.”

She stepped past Ambulon, towards the gloom of the low-lit hall. (It was all gloom on Messatine—energy conservation.) “Think about what I said about First Aid?”

Ambulon sighed. “I can’t go against high command.”

She had known the answer, so she made for the door. “And the lines have been dead since that report. Does it matter?”

Uppercut made sure to get out of there before he could answer, and had meant to go to her quarters, to really try and force a shutdown cycle. But her feet found their way towards Pharma's office instead, down one of the slightly less miserable halls in this place.

She was turning the corner when she paused, and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Did Ambulon know Tarn was on Messatine, extracting T-Cogs from their dying miners? Was he, Primus forbid, an instrument in that little enterprise? Uppercut wasn’t sure that cooperation could keep you off the List, but maybe he’d defected ten years ago as part of a plot. That was—

No, that was ridiculous. T-Cogs were organs, and it was extremely rare to injure one beyond repair and need replacements. Anyway, Decepticons had drones for that, and it was thanks to Shockwave's little project that the Decepticons could even function how they did. Whatever use Tarn had for these, it was probably unpleasant. Apparently he lacked access to his own Eradicons.

The reason Pharma would give them _over_ was easier: Tarn and the Decepticon Justice Division could storm in at any time, and slaughter them all with pathetic ease. The miners only carried blasters, and the rest of them were doctors. Tarn knew there was nothing any of them could do.

So, no, Ambulon was probably not part of a secret Decepticon plot. If anything, he would fear it the most if he knew Tarn was tramping around this place, with his list of defected Decepticons. Uppercut hadn’t known him long, but she was finding it hard to believe he had ever been from that side.

But Updraft was, too.

“Uppercut? Uh...doctor?”

Her feet almost left the floor as she whirled…and was met with First Aid, standing down the hall. Had she been thinking out loud? Was she known for thinking out loud?

“Uh…yeah,” she said. “What can I help you with?”

He backed up a step, and she knew the optics behind his visor would be wide. She managed not to sigh.

“It’s just, you’ve been standing there five minutes,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, without meaning to. “Just going for recharge. Just got caught up in my thoughts.”

She thought First Aid would flee, and realized guiltily it was the longest she’d ever spoken to him outside of work or exchanges about patients. Instead he seemed as rooted as she was, and his visor flashed hurt.

And that wasn’t her. Even if their optics had all seen nothing but darkness these days, she could be a little better to the mech she’d just been defending.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” she said, leaning against the wall with a _thunk._ “I’m sorry. There’s so much on my mind and I’ve been recharging badly. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s fine,” First Aid said, raising his hands as if it really was. “I get it, things are getting hard with communications still dead. Also, Pharma does it all the time since that order.”

Uppercut pinched her nasal ridge. “Oh god, that makes it worse! He's such an distinguished physician, he should _know_ better.”

First Aid shrugged. “He’s not here, so I’ll just remind you he thinks he’s better than us.”

First Aid was talking the way he used to do with Ambulon or the miners, before his evaluation and his weird wall of insignias had come up with Rung. Since the demotion he’d been subdued, and no less likely to speak to her.

No, she thought, First Aid doesn’t know Tarn’s been here either.

“I thought Pharma was operating?” Uppercut asked. “If he’s not, he’d be down the hall.” _Probably for more organ theft._

“He went flying,” First Aid said. “The storm went down and he had me sorting small parts a new way. He must be going stir-crazy.”

“By weight?” Uppercut asked. Her tanks clenched again, and her optics narrowed. “Frame type?”

“Uh…yeah,” First Aid said, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, we have for awhile now, instead of by any reasonable system of viability or expiration, but he was at least letting me do the grunt work without grousing.”

Uppercut ground her dentae, pulling herself away from the wall and folding her arms. “Is there…any rhyme or reason to what he’s having you do, First Aid? That doesn’t make sense to me.”

He had finally taken a few cautious steps towards her, and some of the weight seemed to have left his frame.

“I’ve actually been thinking about it,” he said, talking faster. “He wants certain things based on their usage in large warframes? There are only two mechs with treads in the mine, and no shuttles or armoured trucks—except you—so it seemed nonsensical, but he acted _weird_ when I brought it up. Said he’d bring me down to orderly.”

Were—

Were _all_ these T-Cogs for one mech?

You could live a _long,_ rich life without burning out a single cog. It was a risk for high activity athletes, and soldiers, so it had only become a problem during the war. Uppercut had been consistently disgusted with her colleagues' uses of drones as walking spare parts, but there were none here, and Pharma had told her early on that he and the chief medical officer had never engaged in such barbarism.

And here they were.

Uppercut nodded. “That’s good to know,” she said, smiling at First Aid. She was realizing how _stupid_ she had been, discussing this right outside Pharma's office, in range of any security bugs. She could only hope she had come off as having genuine curiosity. “I’ll make note of it for when I’m overseeing supplies next. Thank you for the heads-up.”

“Poor Ambulon,” First Aid said, probably smiling behind his mask. “He’s going to have to redo all the memos about correct supply protocol. And you know he’ll do it.”

“He will,” Uppercut said, a little fondly. Maybe things would be better with First Aid, now that he’d seen that red optics and hulking frames were no threat. “I’d better get going though, before he catches me not getting my rest.”

“I’m sorry!” First Aid said. He straightened up, taking a step back. “I’ve been keeping you from your recharge, doctor.”

“Just my name,” she said, faceplate heating up. First Aid had been her equal very recently. “We’ve worked together for too long to worry about titles.”

First Aid tilted his head. “Tell that to Pharma.”

Somehow, the stick up their head doctor's aft had stopped being the worst thing about him, and that was almost its own tragedy.

“Goodnight,” she said quickly, and turned to go. What had she been thinking, walking to this office? Would she have tried to talk to Pharma? Rifled through his papers, to confirm what she already knew? No outcome would have been good.

But she’d met First Aid, and really talked to him. Ambulon had told her First Aid was from the very last cohort trained at the Academy, so for a prewar mech he was young. Maybe that was why his obsessive tendencies had surfaced so intensely? Mechs who barely remembered peace time either thrived, or struggled even worse.

She would have to speak to him more. If she ever got the chance again, with Tarn apparently having a key to this place.

When Uppercut got to her room, she couldn’t recharge naturally. So she lay there for awhile, going over the steps of what supplements a carrier needed, and when. When they had to stop transforming. What weeks you would do the major tests. Then how a tiny frame was fit together, how to power down a ready carrier safely, and how to gently cut the new life’s spark away.

Pharma, and of course Ratchet himself, could do this too. A well-respected doctor was always versed in carriage. But no one left was a sparkologist as good as Uppercut. It wasn’t bragging, but a fact, and it had started to be a reason why she didn’t do anything too reckless when in real danger. If the Well was gone for good, the hot spots dry, then the only manufactured mechs left would be clones. The only hope of new life would be the most unpredictable kind—sparklets, brought into the world by her ancient training and by love. And there was very little of _that_ going around, too.

She doubted most of the colonists would care enough to help them now, even Primal followers. And it was selfish, but Uppercut was proud she was still the best. Against all odds, she was still here. Finally, thoughts swirling, she forced shutdown.

So when she woke up for her shift, she decided she could take one risk, and be brave.

Pharma was waiting for her by the operating theatre door, and she had to double check her chronometer and make sure she wasn’t late.

“Doctor,” was all he said. Pharma wasn’t much for simply getting to know his staff, but that was nothing new for Uppercut. Every posting, every new officer, she had had to prove she wasn’t an oaf. She was always going to be his polar opposite, in frame and demeanor. She had hoped Pharma would be a mech she could speak Vosian with once, but she had never even tried. She had never been able to figure out if he was the kind of Seeker who would have thought a roller knowing their language was an absolute affront.

“Good morning, sir,” she said politely, her spark doing somersaults at the thought of him knowing about Updraft. Of _Tarn_ knowing, because of it. He was sharp, he’d gotten this far, so he could have known she’d breached the security in her little clever ways. Her hands managed not to shake as they washed up, and Pharma gestured her into the theatre.

She had known what she would be doing, but it never got much easier. Two frames, the miners who had finally slipped away that week, were laid out on the two small operating tables.

“Autopsy,” he said grimly. “You’ll have to perform Roadway's yourself. Ambulon and First Aid are overseeing energon refining today.”

They knew why these mechs had died, but the grisly reality was that they needed their parts. Altruism was the Autobot way, after all, and it meant all signups were automatic organ donors.

Automatic T-Cog donors, here at Delphi.

It was while Uppercut was making the first incisions that she realized Roadway was one of their two mechs with treads. She suppressed a shudder and soldiered on, because even if T-Cogs might end up in Tarn, the rest of Roadway's parts could help his fellow miners. The deeper they drilled for energon crystals, the more unstable things seemed to become. So of course no one could call for help. Not now.

“Major organs are the focus,” Pharma said, not looking up. “I’m concerned a virus had an implication in their deaths, so the smaller parts might be compromised. We can disinfect more vital pieces.”

Uppercut normally wouldn’t answer that beyond a “yes, sir,” but today she briefly paused. “A virus? But these were injuries from—”

“—A cave-in, yes,” Pharma said impatiently. “I have reason to believe they were infected during their vulnerable period before death.”

Uppercut allowed herself a moment to stare at him, before she returned to coaxing wires away from the mech’s protoform mesh. “With the utmost respect, doctor, shouldn’t Ambulon and I have known about this sooner? We had no infection protocols in place beyond the usual—"

“It was confidential,” Pharma said sharply. “And you’ve never been the one to argue about my judgment.”

He didn’t look up, but his hands moved as quickly and effortlessly through the dead mech’s frame as always. Forged hands, her textbooks always waxed on, could never be equaled in doctors. She’d copied that section of the textbook out once, just to show Knock Out, and they’d put it up to giggle at from time to time.

“When it could potentially put this whole base at risk, I have to,” Uppercut replied. “That’s my duty as a doctor as well as to follow your orders. Which I have _never_ shirked, sir.”

When Pharma was silent for a few moments, Uppercut realized he was extracting the T-Cog. And…yes, near her energon-stained fingers was a rusted wire. This was unusable now, and a sign of some kind of infection spreading to Roadway’s fuel systems.

They had been so careful with these mechs, with their drips and their energon intakes. Big frames were so needed to keep their fuel supply alive, so she and Ambulon had done everything.

“You haven’t,” Pharma said quietly. “You came very far before you got here, for someone of your beginning. Understandable that the isolation is bothering you.”

Anger, then hate, curled in her spark for Pharma then. She had never been more than annoyed by him before—his Vosian accent had even sometimes been comforting. Maybe she should have watched herself better.

“Yes,” Uppercut said, hoping her hands didn’t shake. “I did, sir, and it made me very effective at discussing with my colleagues my merits and their behaviour. I’m sorry, but in future I insist we're informed about something like this. Confidential or not, it was a safety issue.”

Pharma's wings quivered, but he held himself still. From the corner of her optic, Uppercut waited. She remembered he could throw her to Tarn, but to do so would probably collapse the whole risky spiderweb that was keeping them going.

“Correct, doctor,” Pharma said finally. Uppercut managed not to look up in surprise. “I was too conservative with the information. But I’d _thank you_ not to bring it up so informally again. Am I understood?”

“Yes, doctor,” Uppercut said, more quietly. She wondered if she had accomplished anything here—if she’d even been trying to. “I’ll use the proper channels. In future I’d also like to talk about the sorting system you have First Aid using. Could you find time for that?”

Pharma stiffened, and her spark rolled in dread.

“There is, of course, a reason for it,” he said. “If you insist on making a fuss, we can discuss it. For now we’re speaking too much over these dead mech’s frames.”

They finished the autopsies in silence after that. Uppercut noted with some dark satisfaction that Roadway's T-Cog might not be suitable for full transplant. The rust had snaked up its connectors, into the workings, and she wasn’t sure how much a disinfection could help.

When she was done, Roadway was no longer a mech, but the sum of his parts. This kind of thing no longer disturbed her, which was disturbing in itself. She had left the head, so the miners could hold a simple Neoprimalist ceremony. His fuel tanks, his wires, his struts were labelled and ready to be cleaned, to be put into circulation again.

She and Pharma cleaned up, and the parts were set aside, for First Aid to sort and put in with the others. They entered the disinfection chamber together and endured the uncomfortable tickle without small talk. But that wasn’t new—Pharma had never _done_ small talk. Uppercut wondered idly if he’d ever been likable, or if he had always been hopeless and high-caste.

Every time she lifted her hands, she felt the weight of Roadway’s T-Cog, and imagined it shifting Tarn's body into a changed, deadly shape.

_First Aid?_

She had never used his personal comm, though she’d had it all this time. So she was surprised when he answered instantly.

_Everything okay, doctor?_

Uppercut leaned against the wall, in the quiet hallway. No, First Aid. It really wasn’t, but when was it ever? Really, it was only a certain percentile worse than the usual, significant of not.

_I'm sending you coordinates for an old storage room on this base. Can you meet me there in half an hour?_

It took a moment for the reply to come through. _Uh…sure? What’s up?_

_Please trust me. You don’t know how important it is._


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warning is given. Updraft meets some acquaintances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a little while, sorry everyone! Things were busy professionally so fic had to fall to the wayside a bit. Now I'm back, with a chapter full of exciting setup--and faces people might enjoy seeing. I really appreciate feedback in the form of comments, as always.

_Rodion, The Clampdown_

*

“What are you looking at?”

Updraft grinned over at Royale, straightening up in front of her mirror. She was polished to a shine, her wings almost as good a reflection, but then she'd have to turn and twist pretty ungracefully to see it. “Me, of course.”

Royale smiled back, the way Updraft knew she would. She sat up, her long legs swinging over the berth's edge. “I thought your Megatronus didn’t like vanity. A polished sheen hides a clouded spark, or something.”

“You've been listening to the broadcasts?” Updraft asked. “And it’s just Megatron. He dropped the last syllable.”

Royale stood, her arms sneaking around her waist and resting her chin on Updraft's shoulder. Her flight engines hummed appreciatively, her biolights glowing.

“Nah,” Royale said, her own engines purring. “My sire does. He says weapons are a good investment these days.”

Updraft frowned. “Not for long, if that,” she said, finding Royale's hand. “Swindle might want to hold off. We’re not looking for a war.”

Royale stiffened against her wings. “Just because _you’re_ not looking doesn’t mean you won’t find it. You still going to those Bible studies?”

Updraft snorted. She played with Royale’s purple fingers between her own, and her hands didn’t have a scratch on them. Hypocrite. “Soundwave said it was probably too dangerous, for me and them. I’m trying to do what I can in the Guard.”

“Mm. Good.” Royale’s free hand came up, stroking Updraft’s finial. “They catch you, you’ll lose your job, or worse. Have you seen what’s happening to Senators who sympathize with this stuff?”

“I’m not a Senator,” Updraft said, frowning. “And I don’t just _sympathize._ I’m organizing.”

Royale finally pulled back. She pulled Updraft around to face her, and her easygoing, careless expression had cracked.

She hated seeing Royale worry.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she said. Her optics were flickering a brighter purple, plating twitching hear the transformation seams. “Your sister's worried, too. You of all people should know when people put up fronts, and Megatron's not some freedom fighter.”

Updraft gaped. Her optics flashed, before she could stop them. “But he is.”

“He’s _not._ ”

Royale so rarely looked truly unhappy, but now her optics snapped white. So Updraft managed not to sigh, but braced herself.

“You can’t think that after the Rodion incident we wouldn’t worry,” Royale said, her fists clenched. “Your wing was upside down, Uppercut said. I—I can’t worry about more people doing stupid things.”

Swindle was nice enough, and Knock Out deserved his genuine friendship. He was also a stingy slimeball in an on again, off again relationship with a wanted bounty hunter, a mech who had carried Royale but who Updraft had never even _met_. Sometimes Royale would show up at the shop because her sire had disappeared with a ship, to who knew where and Primus only knew why. She pretended it was boredom, but Updraft wondered what she’d done as a sparklet, left alone by her parents with no clue when they would be home.

So maybe Updraft understood that.

“Neither of you have to worry about me,” she said finally, her words a sigh. “I don’t think a violent push is coming. I mean that. I’m trying to do what’s right.”

Royale’s optics pulsed dark. Updraft geared up for another outburst, but the small purple hands just rested on her waist.

“I’ll trust you,” she murmured. “I’m going to worry, and you’d better tell me when you’re home safe, but you know more about it than I do. Be careful.”

“I always am,” Updraft said, grinning. She let her head rest against Royale’s chest, listening to the hum of her engine. “It’s kind of an honour, that my cool, mysterious girlfriend would worry about me so much.”

Royale tapped her arm playfully, then kissed her finial, right in the place that made Updraft squeak and pull back.

“Wait till my next run with my carrier,” Royale said mischievously—as if Lockdown would be back any time soon. “Let’s see who’s worrying when I’m halfway to Luna-2 on my first big deal.”

Updraft wouldn’t—not right then, at least. After that, she was owed a kiss, and some quality time. Worrying could be for people better suited to it.

* * *

 

 

Royale decoded almost lazily these days.

She’d used to hire security out, to safely crack more minor targets, but using what they'd done herself had proven easier after awhile. It meant that these days she had all she had left was time to kill. It especially helped on hungover days, when a headache throbbed behind her optics and the cheap engex she picked up wasn’t dulling her senses.

Today, mourning made her hands fumble.

Updraft had not answered her comm. In all this time, Updraft had _always_ answered her comm, whether they could rendezvous or not. Their record for being apart was twelve-thousand years, during the height of Updraft’s time as an officer, and the reminder bore repeating when this time it had only been a few weeks.

But Royale hadn’t ditched her mid-carriage then, with two sweet but naïve young mechs and one kid who was too headstrong for her own good.

Seekers, honestly.

She’d give this whole ship and all her identities to see that Seeker and feel right again.

“Tracker won’t work either,” she said aloud. “Those two mechs of hers, they probably masked it with their own stuff.” She half-smiled, despite it. “So much for my backup. Smart mechs.”

She would have to get it together. There wasn’t anything she could do until Updraft got in touch, _if_ she got in touch, and she still had to fly through Solstar space and back out again in one piece. If she was—

\--She paused, because she caught her reflection in one of the view screens, black and shut off. If she was going to look like _this,_ she’d get pinned as a filthy bounty hunter even faster than usual. Flickering optics, dull paint, an expression like she’d just downed a pitcher of bad engex. Dark circles under that miserable colour her optics were pretending was purple right now, coolant stains in the corners.

Bounty hunters didn’t _cry._

And she might have started right up again, if it hadn’t been for her comm flaring to life, and a face filling that screen.

Royale stopped, closed her mouth, and stared. Swindle stared back, chewing his lip as if it would make whatever he’d say next better.

“You look _bad,_ ” was what he said, clearly leaning forward. “I just got out of prison, my girl, and _I'm_ looking better than you!”

Royale huffed, straightening up. “Shut up. At least I haven’t _ended_ _up_ in prison.”

Swindle sighed. To her fury, her anger at _him_ was melting away. He was an idiot, but he was still her sire, and it had been a long time. After Updraft, he was all she had.

“Well, they’ve let me out. I’m scraping my contacts back together, and I thought chatting up my talented girl would be just the thing to start with!” She heard the tap of Swindle's fingers on a console, and anger rose up again at his big fake grin.

“If this is a business call, I’m hanging up,” Royale said. Her voice was flat, and she didn't care if he faltered.

Swindle sat back then, and there something on his face Royale didn’t like. He was always friendly, just a bit less slimy with her, but he had never been really _serious._ Not since Lockdown, and they wouldn’t be thinking about that.

“No,” he said, and his voice had an edge. “It’s not, and I’m actually being stupid. I have limited time on this encrypted channel. Your girlfriend’s in trouble.”

Royale’s plating rippled with terror, and it took real work to keep that in check. So she must have gotten back to Decepticons—a doctor, maybe—and Swindle would try and tell Royale about it gently.

“Oh, yeah?” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “And where did you learn that, having just gotten out of prison?”

Why hadn’t he just led in with the real slag? Swindle was an unbearable, infuriating mech. No wonder Royale was so messed up.

Swindle took a long vent in, then looked quickly to one side. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“I was pulled out of prison for this new project,” he said. “It’s…well, don’t worry about it. The other guys are decent enough—all convicts—and we'll have to learn to live with each other.”

“What?” Royale breathed. Did she really have to be worried about _both_ people she loved? “Swindle, what--?”

“Never mind,” Swindle hissed. “Onslaught will hand me my aft if he hears me. I can’t—I can’t tell you exactly what’s going on, kiddo, there’s trigger words on the security, and the audio recordings activate just for them. But your girl's in trouble. You still see her?”

“Yes,” Royale almost whispered.

Swindle’s optics flashed, and Primus, she _hated_ it when he was serious. “ _Warn Updraft_ that the worst thing is coming for her. I’m near one of their facilities, sometimes they bring prisoners back, and it…they keep you loyal, Royale, for sure.”

She knew what he mouthed next, and in four million years her spark had never run so cold.

“Are you serious?” she whispered. “You know _this?_ You.”

Swindle nodded furiously. “Yes, I _do,_ so _warn her_ to hide better until this stupid war ends, because they’re coming for her. It’s a long time coming, apparently.”

“How do you _know_ this?” she almost snarled, because the implications were snaking into her spark and pumping it with panic. “Swindle. How can that be true?”

Every Cybertronian, and then some, would know what he meant—who he meant—and Royale couldn’t bear it. Swindle glanced again to his side, yelped and reached up to shut off his comm.

“I’m sorry, Royale, I have to bolt,” Swindle whispered. “Love you. Be careful, and _warn her!_ ”

Before Royale could respond, Swindle was gone. Royale was left alone with a blank vid screen and her contorted reflection, her thoughts swirling.

She sat up slowly, and input directions. She sent another desperate message to Updraft, then another…and another. She activated the autopilot.

And wept. Because even if she made it in time, with enough, she hadn’t been there. It would still happen, and it would be hell.

* * *

 

 

“My baby,” Contrail squeaked.

Mistral was as satisfied as she could be. She only had a few scratches, ones she could buff out, and the others had crawled out behind her on their own feet. Airstrike was scanning Updraft with one of his machines, and their leader was eyeing what was left of the _Cumulus_ critically.

“I’m sure we can fix it,” one of the mechs said. He was standing in front of the others, so Mistral guessed he was the leader, but otherwise she wasn’t too impressed.

The pink Seeker, the one who had commed them, tapped one of the ship's wings. An aileron, scorched, creaked off.

Contrail looked ready to faint. “My _baby,_ Airstrike.”

“There, there,” Airstrike said. Mistral had to bite back a giggle at his deadpan. “She lived a full life. And _we’re_ not being dissected by squishies.”

“Spin and Crankcase can help you rebuild her,” the Seeker said. He held out his arms, turning a wide, friendly grin on Updraft. “And Primus, Updraft, long time no see! Still looking for a trine?”

Updraft's lip quirked. “The position has been filled. It’s nice to see you, Misfire.”

One of the mechs scowled, and Mistral realized with a jolt she could see part of his _brain._ No one else looked all that worried about it, and she tried to think if anyone on Caminus had ever walked around with a hole in their head, no big deal, like this.

She had started to rethink what a well-oiled machine the Decepticons must have been.

“ _Crankcase_ has better things to do,” he said, folding his arms. The leader mech quirked a brow.

“We’ll figure something out when the thing stops smoking. Updraft,” he said, holding out his hand. “People wondered where you went.”

Updraft smiled, clasping the offered hand in hers. Mistral couldn’t figure out what that mech turned into, but it was rude to look too closely. Maybe Airstrike could tell her later.

“I was scattered, like all of us,” she said. “Thanks for the assist, Krok. This is my trine, Contrail and Airstrike.”

“And number four?” Misfire asked, optics raking Mistral. She frowned—when you were beautiful, you were used to being checked out, but you never got to _like_ the unwanted attention. “ _She_ looking for fliers?”

“Nope,” Mistral said, before Updraft could answer for her. “I don’t have time for that, thanks.”

“That’s fine,” he said, stepping back and not the least bit ruffled. “I’m sure we could still soar around together, or something. Spinister has _no_ finesse.”

“That’s, what, a snack?” Spinister asked, the huge mech moving towards the _Cumulus._ “No, don’t got any.”

Updraft stepped neatly in front of them all, flashing her quick grin at Misfire. Mistral had an urge to see it more. “We went to school together for a bit,” she said. “Right before the war.”

“And we’re all still alive!” Misfire said, perking up. “Well. Maybe not your ship. R.I.P.”

Contrail squeaked again, and Airstrike thumped his shoulder affectionately. The biggest mech—Spinister—rested one hand on the hull.

“This really have a quantum engine?” he asked. Airstrike straight up, optics flashing.

“We got here, didn’t we?” he said. “Yeah, I fixed one.”

“That’s pretty hard to do,” the fifth mech said, the one with the huge chin. “Good way to get yourself irradiated and dead, though.”

“Not if you do it right,” Airstrike snorted. “I’ll show you, when we’re fixing it up.”

“My team needs fuel first, though,” Updraft said, which was a funny way of saying her own carrying, taxed spark needed fuel. “We have a long trip after this. The hold is mostly undamaged, we can just—”

“Get you some of ours,” Krok said. “You’re guests, and we never have those. Owe us back later. Fulcrum, Misfire, can you clear Grim out of the spare room?”

“Grim?” Contrail asked. “And, no thank you. Gonna start reviving my baby here.”

“Yeah, Grimlock,” Misfire said, as Updraft started in surprise and Contrail shrieked “ _Grimlock?_ ”

“The…monstrous Autobot warrior?” Airstrike asked. To Mistral’s surprise, his optics flashed in curiosity. “The armour thick as your chest? The spark so bright it shines through the bulk?”

And here he was supposed to be the one with common sense. Mistral thought about raising her hand, and settled on just speaking up, like usual.

“Isn’t he in prison?” she asked. “Even I knew that.”

“He’s fine,” Misfire said, already waving his hand and heading off. Fulcrum, big chin, looked like he felt it was _not_ fine. “He’s not really himself right now. Not really up for killing anyone. Don’t worry about it!”

Well, Updraft's face told her she _should_ worry about it, so Mistral would try to avoid the ultimate Autobot warrior.

“I’ll help Contrail,” she announced. “I don’t need to fuel yet.”

“Do what, look pretty?” he said, but he grinned at her. “I’m good at that on my own.”

“I’ll help too, but our trine leader needs fuel,” Airstrike said. “No one is touching my quantum engine. _And_ I want to hear about Grimlock.”

He’d found something to sharpen his curiosity on, and it seemed to be when he was happiest.

Krok tilted his head at Updraft. “Your team thinks you need fuel, then. We should catch up, too. Like on where you’re going?”

Updraft glanced at the rest of them, but Mistral held up her hands. Maybe it would be better not to leave her alone, with strangers, on a ship shared with a giant evil dinosaur. At the same time, to speak up about that might give her secret to all those strangers. She glanced at Airstrike, long enough to get an approving nod, and looked back at Updraft.

“We’re fine,” she said, and managed a smile. “We didn’t die, I'll help with the ship. You talk to them.”

“No insignia on this one,” Crankcase muttered, as if it wasn’t a hundred times more normal than having _half of your brain_ in the open air.

Updraft shrugged. “She’s studying for it,” she said, and gave Mistral a more meaningful look. “See you, then.”

Assuming they didn’t get eaten by a dinosaur, then. If the glitter in Airstrike's optics was any indication, he’d get them mauled by curiosity alone.

Mistral shrugged, and set to work. Still better than organics.

* * *

 

 

“Your team are good mechs,” Updraft said. Her mug of energon sat untouched, and Krok had gone to the trouble of refining and heating it for her. Very...sweet of him, considering she didn't know him _that_ well, and that he was a Decepticon, too. She needed the energy, more than the rest of them did. Even if her spark rolled with guilt. “Too good.”

Across the room, Krok snorted. “Misfire would be thrilled to hear you say that.”

Updraft's lips twitched. “No offense to Misfire, but I don’t mean that you’re natural born killers.”

“Ouch,” Krok said. The corners of his optics were crinkled in a smile, not the least bit offended.

“You’ve been out of this a long time, just like us,” Updraft said. “If the rumours are true, Megatron is more irrational now than he was. Crueler. I don’t want anyone catching trouble.”

“We were all good soldiers once,” Krok said. With a too-empty cube of energon in his hands, he sat across from her. “And I’m going to gently remind you that we couldn’t all be there from the beginning, like you. It’s still peace through tyranny, as far as I know.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Updraft said. “My team is like yours. Too good. Mistral's a child, and my trine never adapted to being brutal like they needed.” She placed her hands against the mug's warm metal, like it was Royale's hands clasped in hers. “Being a _decent mech_ stopped being important before the Senate even fell. I just realized that too late.”

Krok was silent for a moment. He was the definition of a decent mech, and he had led an extremely successful infiltration team once. Taking part in demonstrably evil things, not because he liked them, but because he had trusted in the Cause to give him something better if he did. It was tragedy, not disillusionment, that had drawn him so far from the fleets.

“You’re a decent mech,” Krok said after a moment, his words carefully chosen. “I just don’t get why you fell off the radar.”

Updraft shrugged. “I…wasn’t happy with where I was. I'm happy with my trine.”

“Everyone wants to be _happy,_ one way or another,” Krok said, more firmly. “It doesn’t mean we _can_ be. There’s a job to do.”

“This hasn’t been about anyone but Megatron and Optimus for a long time,” Updraft said quietly. “The point where it was about Cybertron ended around the time we ruined it.”

Krok looked at her with interest for a moment. “Most mechs get nervous, talking like that.”

Updraft only shrugged. “You can’t tone down the effect of Cataclysm-class weapons. I’m just…tired.”

“Well,” Krok said. “We’re all that. And you’re looking underenergized, which can’t help.”

Updraft tilted her head, and knew her wings twitched nervously. Fortunately, Krok had made it easy for her to rebut him.

“You’re being awfully stingy yourself,” she noted, pointing at his cube. “We have a decent store, and we’re headed somewhere with plenty.”

Krok shrugged, tapping idly on the side of his cube. “It’s in the name. We scavenge, so we don’t get much.”

Updraft had a feeling Krok had least. There were a few good leaders in the ranks, those who did without so their troops would suffer less. Krok was rare, and getting harder to come by than he’d already been.

“Where are you headed?” Krok asked after a moment.

“The _Nemesis,_ ” Updraft said, and watched Krok's optics reset.

“On…sorry, on purpose?”

Updraft almost snorted. “Yes, on purpose. The Air Commander needs good, named mechs. He’s asked me personally.”

“Well, count us out,” Krok said, folding his arms. “All due respect to Lord Megatron, but staying off the radar has been good for us.”

“We’ll be out of your seams as soon as we can fix the ship,” Updraft said. “Hopefully fix the ship. If not, we'll fly the last leg. I'll pay you, and you can drop us at a safe point.”

“Good luck to you, then,” Krok said. The difference between him, and so many of the officers Updraft had met in her military career, was that he wasn’t mocking her. Krok was still genuine, and that was as valuable as energon.

“So you’ve got your reasons for not checking in with command, then,” Updraft said after a moment. “Someone would give you energon.”

Krok's optics flickered something she couldn’t quite make out.

“Yeah,” he said, more quietly. “Yeah, I guess there’s reasons. They’re also way fewer of us than there used to be. Were you at the Crucible?”

“No,” Updraft said. “I was at Operation: Solar Storm, then guarding the Phase Sixer project.”

Krok gave a low whistle. To her relief, he didn’t ask about the million year interim. “They let you talk about that now?”

Updraft grinned. “Dunno. Until the other day, high command didn’t bother with me. I’m sure they’ve forgotten.”

“Starscream?” Krok asked, sympathetic.

Did Krok know who she’d been? Probably not, unless Misfire remembered. (Based on everything Misfire had been and was, she guessed he didn’t.) It could be simply from her being in the Seeker ranks, regularly having to deal with the Air Commander. Krok’s own flying mechs certainly hadn’t hacked it.

“He’s probably allowed to supervise Seekers again,” Krok said dismissively. Her spark eased with relief. “Having a princess must have perks. Almost as many as _being_ one.”

Poor Chandelle had been born long after Updraft cut off contact. She didn’t know a thing about her, except that she was Megatron’s, and unfortunate for it.

“I wouldn’t know,” Updraft said, sipping her energon. “Anyway. Grimlock.”

Krok straightened up then, tapping the table uncomfortably. “Grimlock. He's pretty harmless right now, just so we’re clear. He was damaged somehow, and…” He shrugged. “Misfire’s looking after him. He's less dangerous than the Black Block Consortia.”

“So are a ton of things,” Updraft snorted. “I’ll trust you, Krok. But I want to see him.”

Grimlock had been capable of pulling Seekers from the sky and ripping them apart, and if that dinosaur so much as scratched someone’s plating, she’d take care of it. Somehow.

A crash resounded up to Krok’s tiny office, and they both leaped to their feet, because apparently Updraft would have to deal with it immediately.

“Sorry in advance,” Krok said, already breaking into a run. “I mean, it could also be Spinister, yesterday he punched a wall because it was rude to him—”

“How do you deal with this?!” Updraft called, following him. How did he deal with this without an _alt mode?_

She had never had to fight Grimlock, and now she was a bit hobbled in speed and skill by that tiny extra spark. Hopefully Krok, or one of his mechs, could get a handle on the whole—

“You're _rude._ ”

\--Thing.

Trust Mistral to be nose-to-nose with the Autobot's famous beserker. Contrail and Airstrike had blasters out, trained on Grimlock from their spots pressed up against the ship, but Mistral was glaring at him like he was a cybercat interrupting her nap.

And Misfire was…grinning. Grinning like the time he’d turned the landing pad at the Academy into a skating rink.

Krok spoke before Updraft could. “You two can put the guns down. It’ll bounce off him, and hit your friend.”

Grimlock swung his big head slowly from Krok, to Updraft’s trine, to Mistral’s glaring face again.

Then he stepped back, and ambled over to Misfire, who patted his side proudly.

“We told you there’s something up,” Misfire said, looking smugly at Updraft. “He’s usually pretty good. Like a big turbofox puppy.”

“This is exaggerated,” Crankcase muttered. He hadn’t even looked up from the generator he was picking apart.

“So what's the truth?” Contrail almost wailed, pressing up closer to the _Cumulus._

“That this is gonna be a long trip,” Mistral said, turning away. Her tone was clipped, but her optics glittered with such a Skywarp mischief that Updraft’s spark ached. “So hurry this up. Or don’t, because I want to see if that dino pushes it.”

 


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistral is initiated, and Delphi teems with intrigue. Starscream prepares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, as always!! It's been a busy summer, but I'm so excited for where this fic is going and want to thank you all again for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this update, they're my lifeblood.

“Misfire. Sit _still._ ”

“It's exciting!”

“You’re being rude.”

Misfire's wings flared out with a grin, and he waved enthusiastically at Mistral before he finally sat back down.

Krok turned away from him, shaking his head, but there was fondness on his face. He cared about his troops—or, this tiny crew that passed for troops. Like Thundercracker with his squadrons, or Updraft with her trine. Mistral liked him.

Updraft had stopped her their first morning on the _Weak Anthropic Principle._ “Are you ready to be a Decepticon?”

Mistral had straightened like a rod, and gotten Updraft to smile. Even if it was sad, and tired, it was one.

“Yes!” she’d said, before bringing down her wings. “Yes, finally.”

Updraft reached out, squeezed her shoulder, and her grin cracked wider. “There’s enough people here to do a proper little branding. Krok and I will officiate.”

“Now?” Mistral had asked, sounding like more of an excited sparklet than she’d planned. “Today?”

“Go clean up,” Updraft said. “We can’t use your spark chamber metal, of course, but—”

“It’s symbolic,” Mistral said, knowing her optics were wild and excited. “You don’t need it. I'm ready.”

Someone had made an effort to clean up the bridge a little, so there were no longer cheap engex cans and old datapads lying around. Krok and Updraft stood to one side, but the others had been seated on some overturned crates, for what would pass as their ceremony. Misfire kept flaring out his wings so Fulcrum and Crankcase couldn’t see, and Contrail and Airstrike had sat apart from their hosts. When Mistral caught Airstrike’s optic, he winked. Spinister was…peeling paint off the wall, to sniff it, so Mistral wouldn’t even ask.

A mass brushed past her, and Misfire scowled. “Hey! Big guy, come sit! You’ll be in the way.”

There was something wrong with Grimlock, processor damage that kept him from speaking or working right. Or caring that they were all the enemy. Updraft tensed, and Mistral swore some kind of trine-bond thing passed between her and her wingmates, a plan lest Grimlock turn around and get angry.

Mistral didn’t flinch. Unlike yesterday, he wasn’t running, or growling. Better not to throw him off.

“Thanks for coming, Grimlock,” she said. The huge mech paused…and huffed a gentle vent across her face.

“Over here!” Misfire called again, waving harder. Grimlock lumbered over, laying down gingerly next to Misfire’s bench like an overgrown turbofox. So much for the Autobot's biggest weapon.

“Now that we’re all set,” Krok said, optics crinkled at the corners. “Lieutenant?”

Updraft must have been last called that awhile ago, but she took it gracefully. “I think we can begin. It's not long, Mistral. You’ll be a Decepticon soon.”

Mistral grinned. “I always have been.”

“That’s the spirit,” Krok said. He took a step forward first, his thumb clicking something in his fist. He turned away from her before she could see what it was, addressing their tiny assembly.

“It’s been a few million years since any of us did this,” Krok said. “We all had our reasons. They’re nobody’s business. For the first time in a _very_ long while, our new recruit is young, and fresh—and named--and we need that.” He turned to Mistral, and his optics sparkled. “It’s good to hear the cause still inspires. Welcome, Mistral.”

Updraft lifted something, and as Krok stepped aside Mistral saw metal glowing hot, on the end of a pair of prongs. She looked apologetic, as if Mistral hadn’t already known this was coming. Still, Updraft grinned at Mistral crookedly, the smile Mistral had imagined she would have worn at those early rallies.

“Welcome, Seeker,” she said, and the brand hit home.

It _hurt_ , and Mistral saw Contrail shrink back at the hiss and the smell of peeling paint. Her wings twitched, but she held herself, and vented deep as Updraft pulled back and burned her left wing, too.

“And just like that,” Updraft said, placing the prongs down gingerly. “Mistral, a Decepticon Seeker.”

“Atta girl!” Misfire called. Like this was the height of the war, and Mistral wasn’t some kind of Decepticon last gasp.

No, not gasp. She’d been too excited about this. She was a rattling breath, a rush of energy. She would make her parents proud.

“We'll clean up the brands later,” Updraft said. “Raise them nicely. I think they’d look nice red.”

“We should have a drink first!” Misfire said, jumping up. He patted Grimlock's nose as he went, and the Dinobot seemed completely unbothered by the fact that he’d just witnessed the enemy side's initiation. Mistral was anxious to know where he’d come from, and why Misfire seemed to like him so much. “On me!”

“I already bought them,” Fulcrum said, as he followed. “They can’t be _on you._ ”

Mistral felt Updraft’s hand rest on her arm. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Mistral straightened her wings up, because she officially couldn’t feel visible pain. “I’m great.”

Updraft's optics looked dull, but Mistral saw Airstrike rushing off, probably to get her energon. Carrying took so much out of you. Mistral resolved to have her ground wire checked the moment she next saw a doctor, and _really_ checked if she found herself someone nice. (Admittedly, the pickings were slim. She hadn’t worried too much about it.)

What would they do when the spark was ready to come off?

Boldly, Mistral took Updraft’s arm, to sweep her down the hall to the small room serving as their quarters. She didn’t pause long enough for Updraft to be able to stop her. She grinned, flicking her wings, seeing how the brand darkened the corner of her optic

“You won’t be able to act like that on Megatron’s flagship,” Updraft said, her voice gently teasing. “I don’t care if my team likes each other, but Decepticons are strictly professional.”

“I’m sure I'll manage,” Mistral said, her voice as light as her spark. “Maybe they’ve relaxed since you were last in touch.”

Updraft made a face. “Doubtful. We’ll have to talk about behaviour before we get there, Mistral. Serving under Megatron himself is a lot different from…anywhere else, basically.”

“Well,” Mistral said, frowning slightly. “It’s the biggest honour, isn’t it?”

“The war is pretty different from what it was,” Updraft said. She reached up, squeezing Mistral’s arm. “And as your new commanding officer, you’ll have to take orders from me about it.”

“I will, I will!” Mistral said, maybe too lightly. “I’ll even call you ma'am around Lord Megatron.” She caught Updraft's optic, hoping she could get her to smile. Her new officer didn’t return it.

“I’ll tell you about High Command,” Updraft said gently. “Tonight we'll tell the boys, and tomorrow, we’ll show you how a soldier acts.”

Updraft was treating her like a child, and that should have bothered her more. Would have, a week ago. But now she _was_ a Decepticon, and even if her spark twinged at Updraft’s words, she would have to let it roll off her.

Decepticons had more control than flighty, runaway Seekers. Mistral would have to prove it.

* * *

 

 

Uppercut had told First Aid everything.

Everything _except_ Updraft, whose presence was easily omitted and who might undermine their whole problem. She had found that First Aid not only didn’t think she was crazy, but listened with the kind of attention that must have made his bedside manner so good.

“I believe you,” he’d said sincerely. He had stayed put, not glancing at the door like someone about to grab Pharma and have her restrained for confessing paranoid delusions. “I almost wish I didn’t, because I don’t… _want_ to believe this.”

“Me neither,” Uppercut said quietly, the weight of it on her shoulders. “But I heard him. I… _felt_ his voice.”

“We'll figure this out,” First Aid had told her, so sincerely she almost believed him. “I mean, we can’t—we can’t _take_ Tarn.” The last word was a whisper, as if Tarn himself could hear them wherever he’d gone. “But we can think of _something._ We have to.”

They’d have to think of something carefully, if they were going to have any hope. That was tricky, when they could only really talk on their private comms, and not spend much time together. Uppercut and First Aid had avoided each other expertly for years, and it would certainly make Pharma notice if they were suddenly friends.

The first step was the communications system, damaged and unable to reach other bases. It was beyond Uppercut, or so she’d thought, but it was easy enough to cut a recharge hour out and spend it on some coding.

Maybe they could solve this quickly, and get out of here. Maybe they could break Pharma out of whatever deal he had made, before the DJD's demands got even worse and he could no longer hold up his little deal. If someone from command or spec ops came to extract them while the DJD were chasing a mark, they could leave this stupid base to freeze like it deserved...

…Of course, high command didn’t care about the likes of them. Uppercut had never met Optimus Prime, though First Aid had worked with Ratchet—not just been interrogated once, for saving a life—and said he was a good mech. Uppercut didn’t wear this brand to follow a Prime, and didn’t expect that Prime to help her any time soon, so she kept an optic on their shuttles. Only two worked, and one was looking precarious and rusted at the seams. So she focused on an old Sigma model, meant for a long-dead rescue crew and comfortable for four. The miners could squeeze in, if they were careful. Maybe. Hopefully. Four more were sick, and Uppercut was having doubts that there would be a nucleon mining team here for long.

If Pharma _really_ didn’t get it together, he wouldn’t have a medical team, either.

“The whole thing will be on its audial if we get sick,” First Aid whispered to her, as he changed out fluid drips. “We might _be_ sick. I took a sample from myself and I swear the fuel content changed.”

“It wouldn’t be the first plague I kicked,” Uppercut replied. Head down, watching Gravel's temperature reading. Ordering lines of code in her memory bank, because she had moved past a layer of Pharma's security, and was closer.

“Yeah, but you’re big—wait.” First Aid's visor blinked up at her in surprise. “Really?”

“A good million years ago,” Uppercut murmured. “I went to recharge feeling a little off, and woke up in a pile of corpses.”

“ _Primus.”_ First Aid's visor went bright, like he was a newbuilt hearing his first war story. “What did you…do?”

Uppercut shrugged. “I got up and catalogued the dead. Then reported in.”

First Aid covered his mouth, managing not to make a noise. “You are--you're really something, Uppercut. I mean, doctor,” he added quickly, as Ambulon's footsteps passed by. He paused in the doorway, arms full of boxes, and Uppercut made sure to look very busy.

“You two are chatty today,” he noted. It was worth noting, when Uppercut and First Aid had each spent a decade being quietly professional. (Wasted time, she’d realized, now that she was getting to know him. Why had First Aid so aggressively avoided her?)

“I’m worried about these illnesses,” Uppercut said, hopefully not too quickly. “The last time I saw this was a plague ship.”

Ambulon’s face darkened, as expected. “Pharma was saying such. You two make sure you power down fully every cycle, and are testing your energon regularly. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“Yes, sir,” Uppercut replied. Ambulon gave them a sidelong glance before he continued, and First Aid sighed when his footsteps faded.

“I feel bad,” he said, then remembered to switch to comms. _He'll be upset when we grab him and jet off. He actually likes us._

_I know,_ Uppercut replied. _But he’ll put us under watch if we start talking about this. He’s a good mech, Ambulon. Follows the rules._

_He used to be a Decepticon._

Uppercut looked at him sharply, and to her guilty satisfaction First Aid recoiled. _Lots of good mechs became Decepticons. You’re not warborn, First Aid. You know things are complicated._

_I guess they are._

They worked in silence the rest of that day, but Uppercut knew she was forgiven. She wasn’t wrong, after all, and if they did this right maybe she could see one of those complicated Decepticons again.

One morning, before her shift, she tried Pharma's locks again.

And her quarters' console lit up, making her sit up straight and scramble to take in what she was seeing. Her excitement that she could see what was wrong with the comm link remotely quickly faded, and she contacted First Aid.

_The comm isn’t damaged._

_Uh—what? Sorry, was in recharge, what?_

_The main comm. The one Pharma says can’t contact anyone off planet, and only he can access? I just got to log in and it’s fine._

_Uppercut? Are you…sure? Sure you’re logged in?_

_Don’t be stupid, I’ve been working on the logins for weeks. I’m sending a distress call._

_On my way._

Uppercut should have waited for First Aid, maybe. She definitely should have logged out as soon as she discovered the break, and found a safer time to do this. But people were sick. People were in danger.

Updraft and Windjammer would have done better. They were trained for this kind of emergency. They could have kept it from _being_ an emergency.

First Aid arrived before she hit _send_ , and about threw his hands over hers. She jumped—had she left her door unlocked, really?

“Pharma will see,” he said, breathless. “Here. I have one we can send over.”

“What—” Uppercut started, but he'd already sent it out. “What frequency is this?”

“ _Wreckers: Declassified,_ ” First Aid said, and Primus, did Uppercut wish she’d been faster.

“Are you crazy?” she hissed. First Aid shook his head, holding up his hands placatingly.

“Everyone already thinks that, don’t _you_ start too,” he said. Her spark twinged, because he managed to sound a bit hurt. “Pharma will never check that frequency. But he might see you’re logged in, so you’d better—"

The console screen flashed red, on cue. Next to her, First Aid swallowed.

And that was what Uppercut got for arguing. It had been roughly as useful as asking Updraft kindly to stop going to those underground meetings, to think of her family and not about putting herself in danger.

That had been long ago, and this was now.

“Where’s Ambulon now?” Uppercut asked.

“Checking readings,” First Aid said, already towards the door. “Pharma’s gonna know we did _something,_ but he won’t know what or where to look. History looks auto-cleared, but we only have seconds.”

Uppercut burned with shame as she followed him, because she’d been too slow. If the DJD showed up and hurt someone...

Well, Primus help her, hopefully that someone would be Pharma, because they’d be long gone. The ship would be ready, and maybe someone more qualified could make sure Pharma didn’t do any more damage.

So of course Ambulon and Pharma were _both_ waiting in the main office. On reflex, Uppercut's arm twitched out, as if she could protect small, unsuited to warfare First Aid from anyone allied with the DJD.

But Pharma didn’t even look up from whatever he was typing. Ambulon tilted his head, peering up from his clipboard, and Uppercut realized he really didn’t look threatened.

“Is everything alright, you two?” Ambulon said. Uppercut straightened, because Pharma was acting…like usual. Like she and First Aid were beneath his notice.

But he must have _known._

“We’re just concerned about the coders from last night,” First Aid said. “Uppercut mentioned to me that she’s seen plagues before, and she has concerns.”

Good doctors thought on their feet, and kept straight faces. It certainly helped First Aid that he covered his mouth, and Pharma only glanced at him as he turned to Uppercut.

“There were some issues just now with the network,” he said. “Check our records backups before your shift begins, doctor.”

“Yes, sir,” Uppercut said quietly. Tarn almost certainly wasn’t here, then, and maybe Pharma had been mistaken about what she had done. “If we have an epidemic, we need to keep organized.”

“Yes,” Pharma said, rolling his shoulders. “I’m already down one physician, Uppercut, so do try not to dive too deep into it. I'll have it in hand.”

When his optics _flashed,_ and he met hers, Uppercut knew he knew. First Aid did too, from the way his fans ratcheted up, but Ambulon could easily chalk that up to anxiety. Of course Pharma had _something_ in hand—he was feeding T-cogs to Tarn, trying to keep him at bay while the miners fell apart around him. Most of them would just be ripped apart by disease, instead of by sadists.

Uppercut straightened up, and kept her expression cool. “Of course, sir. I’ll inform you of any concerns.”

“You will,” Pharma said. There was no private threat, no indication he knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe he had seen First Aid’s message too, and would bring Tarn anyway.

She watched First Aid out of the corner of her optic, but only for a second. Pharma might know, by now, that they had an understanding.

Paranoia was not a look Uppercut wore well.

Spark still pumping, her optics overbright, Uppercut finished her shift. She took two more miners off work, sending them to rest—and found one of their sicker patients leaking _rust,_ his poor optic nerves gone without his notice.

_It’s getting worse,_ was all First Aid said later. _And after today, even if someone gets our signal, then—then I don’t know. I really don’t._

_Someone will still know,_ Uppercut said. _Someone will make sure Pharma gets his._

Even if they did leave, if Pharma didn’t lock the shuttle bay or something, a plague ship might be what left.

It was only when she was trying to get her recharge cycle, lying awake in her berth, that she received a comm from Pharma.

_Mind your business, upstart._

Uppercut didn’t recharge.

* * *

 

 

Chandelle was getting her fake physical when Starscream strutted in.

Dreadwing was standing over this one, hands held behind his back, because it didn’t matter anyway whether he saw this, and Chandelle knew what Knock Out would tell her.

“There you are then, Princess,” Knock Out said, as the medical bay doors swept open. “A clean bill of health.”

“Naturally,” Starscream purred. He didn’t pick up that Knock Out was lying, which was a relief, but still sloppy of him. He was such a liar himself that he was usually on the lookout for others following his example.

“I'm just finishing up, carrier,” Chandelle said, sliding off the berth. The medicine was helping (the itching was rare now) but she couldn’t very well tell Knock Out that this time. Starscream looked from her, to Knock Out, to Dreadwing, and smiled. The sight of that had never really pleased Chandelle, because it only meant something that would please Starscream himself.

“Good, we're all here,” he said primly. “Dreadwing, Knock Out. You’ll be pleased about this news.”

“You’ve decided to kill yourself?” Knock Out asked, not looking up.

Chandelle choked, and Starscream's smile slipped into a scowl. Knock Out could get in real trouble for talking like that, but Starscream didn’t move towards him. He turned up his nose instead, turning away.

“Addressing a superior officer this way in front of the princess,” Starscream said, stalking to Chandelle's other side. Resting a hand on her arm, he leaned forward. “Honestly. This news _is_ more for you than anyone, I suppose. Besides the obvious.”

Now Knock Out looked up. They had a history, these two, one she hadn’t asked about. Sparing a look at Dreadwing, the expression on his face said she should have asked him first.

“Spit it out, then,” Knock Out said. “Plenty that needs doing without you wasting my time.”

“As if you work all that hard,” Starscream huffed. “Anyway. Updraft is coming.”

Chandelle jumped at the crash. Knock Out didn’t let his hands shake for very long, a scanner now broken beneath them in the basin, but Chandelle saw it even as her spark rushed.

Out of the corner of her optic, she realized Dreadwing had _smiled._

“Are we recruiting ghosts now?” Knock Out asked, voice light. Chandelle saw right through it, with his wide optics and nervous stance. “If you’re coming in here to torment me, _Commander,_ get out.”

Starscream’s optics darkened. “I spoke to her, and I can show you the recording to prove it. Lord Megatron agreed to permit more named Seekers to come home for my squadrons. If I could find them, anyway.”

“Does she look well?” Dreadwing asked. He was leaning forward, anxious to know, and Chandelle's optics narrowed. Dreadwing had known Updraft once, but that had been before the war. She was just a name now, the child who had refused Vos and turned her back on Starscream.

At least she had already proved she wasn’t stupid.

Starscream waved his hand. “The feed was poor, but she looked fine. Has a team with her. Still petty.”

Knock Out’s optics narrowed, and he turned away. His hands were still shaking, but Chandelle turned her gaze from the equipment clattering gently against his palms.

“What that child went through was never petty,” Dreadwing said coolly. “I was there.”

“Well, she’s not a child any more,” Starscream snapped. “Now, take Chandelle home. I have double the mine inspections this month if I’m to be ready for new officers.”

Really, he hadn’t garnered the reaction they wanted. Their thanks, maybe, for finding Updraft and ordering her home? Whatever it was she had meant to him, when all he did was complain about her?

She was used to watching Starscream’s back stalk off, but to see other officers affected by more than annoyance was new.

As the door closed, Chandelle turned awkwardly to Dreadwing. “So you…knew Updraft pretty well.”

Her bodyguard's lip twitched, clearly trying to hide his smile. “I knew her well, little one. I was her bodyguard when she was a child, in fact.”

Chandelle’s optics narrowed. Dreadwing had never lied, and he was too pleased now to be putting up a front. “Why didn’t I know you were close?”

Now Dreadwing looked uncomfortable—maybe for the first time since she had known him.

“You never asked,” he said, a little flatly. “And it…upset me, to speak of her around your carrier. Their relationship was not good.”

Well, that wasn’t surprising. Maybe she had left one of the fleets in disgrace, and it would have gotten them in trouble. But Starscream had spoken of Updraft _sometimes_ , and would have mentioned that to keep Chandelle in line. He certainly compared their _flying_ all the time.

Behind them, Knock Out huffed. He still hadn’t turned around, but he was no longer shaking.

“Get going then, Princess,” he said. “You’d best get ready for your older sister.”

Chandelle straightened up, planted her feet, and tried to loom. She wasn’t good at it, because she’d never been an Heir, never needed to be in control.

“I’d like to know why Starscream wanted to tell _you_ , doctor,” she said. “Then we'll go. Of course.”

Knock Out finally turned, and his optics were dark. Chandelle bit back the sad twinge in her spark, because she had kind of liked her new doctor, and she’d already stamped out his goodwill. He would have to tell her _something._

“I'm her sire,” he snapped, the last answer she expected. “So I’m thrilled to bits she’s coming. Now get out of my medical bay.”

Dreadwing didn’t let her gawk, and before Chandelle could process this he’d hustled her into the hall, hand firmly on her shoulder as he did. When he looked down at her, his optics were stern.

“Knock Out isn’t bad to deal with,” he said, probably the best compliment Decepticons gave. “So don’t cross him too badly. I knew him before the war.”

“Because of Updraft,” Chandelle said. Dreadwing nodded. She lifted her chin, steeling herself.

“I want you to tell me about her,” she said. “As much as you can—and not because I’m a princess. She’s my sister.”

They turned the corner, and Dreadwing squeezed her shoulder. He wasn’t smiling, but already the hold of his wings was softening, his steps slowed.

“So she is,” Dreadwing said. “And I’m pleased she lives. You will like her.”

Chandelle laughed, a bit uncomfortably. “I don’t think Decepticons are supposed to like each other.”

Dreadwing's lip quirked. “I enjoy our time together. I should hope you feel the same.”

“I’ve known you my whole life,” Chandelle said quickly. “It’s different.”

“Well,” Dreadwing said. “I saw Updraft grow up. It’s been some time, but she _is_ family, and I should hope she hasn’t changed.”

“Cybertronians are pretty slow to do that,” Chandelle said.

“Not those of you born from sparks,” Dreadwing said, amused. He was more cheerful now than Chandelle had seen him…maybe ever. Even when she had been _very_ small, and Skyquake had been at his side. “You grow up fast.”

“And then we all try to stay pretty much the same,” Chandelle said, managing a smile back. “I hope I do like her.”

“You will,” Dreadwing said, sounding certain. “Now, to tell you about how we met…we didn’t plan to stay in Vos for long, Skyquake and I, but Updraft has a habit of keeping people close…”

Chandelle walked, and listened. And thought of Vos, the dead flier's city she’d never seen, but could still make her wings itch.

 


End file.
